John O'Brien - Conspiracy

“If you’re done sightseeing, Chief, can we please get off this fucking beach?” Speer whispers with a sharp edge to his tone.

Putting away the binoculars, Krandle motions ahead with the barrel of his M-4. “Lead on.”

This spurs the others into action. The raft is grabbed and, with the others providing security, is dragged across the sandy beach. The hiss of the rubber on the sand mixes with the surf running up the shallow grade of the seashore. The sun is behind the clouds, but faint shadows from the houses in the early morning light stretch over the embankment as the team draws near.

Blank windows stare at them, the curtains still hanging in many of them. Some of the houses have screen doors pitched at angles, the upper hinges having been torn loose. A few have open doors, whether forced or otherwise, giving a view into the darkness beyond. Paths cut into the embankment lead from the beach to each of the houses and the few streets that dead end at the shore.

Krandle rises near one of the dead end roads. A wooden post painted orange and white lies horizontal across two other poles, signifying the end of the street. A gust of wind stirs his pant legs and sighs through more of the stunted trees nearby. Groaning creaks arise from a couple of the screen doors as their hinges protest movement. The breath of wind catches one of the doors and it slams against an outer wall, startling the entire team.

They all drop to their knees in a semi-circle, barrels rise, searching for targets. The awareness of what the noise was comes quickly, but they continue searching the surrounding area.

“Speer, move us out. Opposite sides of the street. Remember your intervals,” Krandle says moments later.

The team rises and negotiates short steps cut into the embankment leading to the street. They head around the dead end marker and begin to make their way into the coastal town. Tall grass surrounds each house, the stalks bending over and hiding any semblance of a sidewalk. Vehicles are parked at intervals on the roadway and in driveways, their windows and outer bodies covered in grime from months of being in the open. Sand has piled up around the tires of those in the street. Any curbs this street had have long ago been covered by drifts.

The road itself is covered in a thin layer of undisturbed grit, and it’s through this that the team cautiously makes its way farther into the town. The tracks they leave behind are the only evidence that anyone or anything has moved through this area in some time. Krandle isn’t worried about leaving tracks. After all, this isn’t a ‘zero footprint’ operation, and their mission is to actually find someone. If someone sees their tracks and finds them, well, that amounts to the same thing. Miller keeps a sharp eye behind them nonetheless.

Some of the houses they pass have had their doors and windows broken. Curtains in those broken windows stir in the breeze; there isn’t any movement beyond that. A hush has settled over this place. Even the soft shuffling sound of their boots on the gritty pavement doesn’t seem to travel far. It’s as if the area is absorbing any sound. The feeling isn’t a stifling one, more of a dead one. The land has forgotten that humankind once walked these streets.

The team comes to the end of this small neighborhood and small industrial shops occupy the few lots in front of them. Rusted husks of vehicles sit in some of the chain link enclosed yards. The buildings themselves have a rundown look and most haven’t seen a coating of paint in some time. Krandle halts the team at this residential boundary.

Sections of the fencing have been pushed down, the supporting poles leaning inward at angles. Some of the damage looks recent and forced while others are obviously down through age and neglect. Buckets, old signs, and other forgotten debris are scattered in the back of the businesses. The road ahead makes its way past these structures before turning to the right a few blocks away.

Krandle and the others look for any sign of life, threatening or otherwise. No bird takes wing, nor is there a stray cat slinking through scattered piles of junk looking for a meal. It’s completely silent and still.

A ray of sunshine pokes through a break in the clouds, casting its light across several of the neglected lots. The beam doesn’t brighten the landscape but only makes it appear more forlorn. It reflects off the shattered back window of one of the vehicles, causing the members to blink and look away from the glare. The sunshine is short-lived as clouds cover the sun once again.

“I bet that’s what the watch saw last night…only from the moonlight instead,” Speer whispers.

Blanchard and Ortiz nod in agreement, remembering their last trek ashore. Franklin tilts his head slightly to the side and lifts one side of his mouth as if skeptical of this answer.

“That’s one possibility,” Miller says.

Krandle doesn’t know if the surprise of the screen door slamming against the side of the house earlier or hearing Miller speak is more of a shock. The others turn to stare at Miller, to which he merely shrugs, his words for the week having been uttered.

“Did that hurt?” Speer asks Miller before turning back to screen his sector.

“Who knows what they saw? That’s what we’re here to find out. We’re heading down this street and around the corner. We don’t have a map, so we’ll have to find our own way to the hill,” Krandle says.

“And I vote we don’t go find a map. I wasn’t very fond of the last time we decided we wanted one,” Speer mutters to himself, rising.

“Stow it, Speer,” Krandle says.

The team heads down the road, paying special attention to those places where the fences appear to have been recently bent inward. Silence follows along with them. They reach the point where the road curves to the right and heads in front of the dilapidated buildings. The windows of the buildings have all been broken out with grime covering the shards of glass remaining in the panes. Washed out signs hang above the establishments — City Appliances, Jim’s Auto Repair, Unique Treasures, and others too faint to read.

Some light reaches a short distance into the buildings revealing scattered messes within each of them. As the team passes the auto repair facility, a metallic sound rings from deep within the shadows. It sounds like a pipe hitting the hard ground and bouncing.

The team instantly goes into action. The members on the building side swing their carbines to bear on the sound while dropping to their knees. The others drop as well and focus on the surrounding area — all are poised to deliver concentrated fire and either run or engage. The ringing sound within fades and the deathly quiet returns.

“If there’s anyone inside, come out slowly. We mean no harm and are here to help,” Krandle calls, his cheek against the adjustable stock, aiming through his sight at the interior of the building.

Nothing moves. Tension holds its grip on this small piece of ground in this nameless little town. Reaching up, Krandle turns on the flashlight mounted on one of the side rails of his carbine. Light flares into the building, but its intensity is drastically reduced, having to pass through the daylight. He rises, and, with his finger caressing the trigger, walks slowly forward.

At one side of the broken window, he casts his light inside. The interior smells of mold and must. The carpet spread across the floor is deeply stained with grease and is ragged around the edges. In what appears to be a small waiting room, plastic chairs lie upended. A fake wood-paneled counter with a pale Formica top occupies half of the room, and a broken clock hangs crookedly on one of the walls, its time stopped at 1:13. From the looks of the place, that clock could have stopped in 1996, so Krandle doesn’t attribute much to it. Dirt-streaked papers are scattered across the dull space. To one side, a door leading into the garage stands partially open. Sending his light through the doorway, Krandle doesn’t see much of interest other than a stained concrete floor and the partial front tire of a vehicle.