John O'Brien - Conspiracy

Shops surround the park across the streets on three sides. Their dark, broken windows gaze onto the massacre without interest, merely taking it in. Krandle and the rest of the team watch the stores looking for movement, their eyes darting from one opening to the next. Gulls are perched on the eaves of the buildings looking on. There aren’t hundreds of them, nor do they present any feeling of dread like the Hitchcock movie Birds , but there are a few of them. They stare on, some with tilted heads, as if wondering if this intrusion of people is going to interfere with their food…or add to it.

“I’m not fond of being in the open like this,” Speer mutters.

“For once I have to agree with Speer,” Franklin says. “We’re at a huge disadvantage if someone should take issue with our being here.”

“These birds freak me out, man,” Ortiz states.

“I know. Set a perimeter and sit tight. We’ll move along shortly,” Krandle responds.

The unreal nature of this place makes Krandle want to see more. He feels that if he looks closer, it will all begin to make sense. He knows what happened to the world and has dealt with that aspect, but his senses haven’t adapted, and being in the center of it makes him want to see more. He has been thrown into this new world against his will; he feels the need to see more. He knows that the team comes first, but he feels that, if he can understand and come to better terms with the environments they come across, he’ll be able to lead them better.

The team sets a perimeter around the plaza and Krandle makes way through the tall grass toward the fountain. The stalks brush against his pants as he creates a trail through their midst, having to step over an occasional body lying on the ground. He doesn’t spy any other trails through the grass, which is a good sign, but that in and of itself doesn’t mean anything. It’s only means that nothing transits through the grass regularly. If there was only the occasional trespasser, the stalks wouldn’t be pressed flat for more than a day. They would stand upright with the coming of the next day.

Reaching the fountain, Krandle notices it is partially filled with sand. On a waist-high marble dais, a plaque is embedded at an angle on its top, dedicated to the nation’s war veterans.

That’s now a dedication to everyone left alive , Krandle thinks, staring at the carved writing. Those now living are all war veterans .

Brushing the sand away from the raised lettering, he wonders if there will be a similar plaque in the far future dedicated to those who survived this new era.

Krandle leaves the fountain and mounts the steps leading upward to the city hall building. Working his way around the withered bodies, he comes to an entrance door that stands open. Looking down, he sees the impression of a trail leading out. It’s the first time he’s seen a definite sign since arriving onshore.

Standing to one side of the opening, Krandle calls inside. His voice resonates in a large entry chamber and echoes down dark hallways. Moments later, a single shriek sounds out. The scream sends chills down his back and causes goose bumps to rise on his arms.

“Okay, we’re not going in there,” he mutters.

Like I was even thinking about it . Buildings are to be avoided , he thinks, remembering both the hotel and what happened to the sailors in the supply depot.

Negotiating the steps, he joins the rest of his team.

“You had to go and disturb them, huh?” Speer says. “Can we get out of here now? There’s no one left alive in this shit town.”

Krandle looks into the eyes of the others. There isn’t an expectation of his answer one way or the other, they only look back waiting for it.

“You know better than to ask that question, Speer. We have a job to do and we’re not leaving until we check out that hill,” Krandle answers.

“I know, Chief. This place just gives me the creeps, that’s all.”

“It’s pretty fucked up for sure. Let’s get this finished.”

Readjusting the small packs on their shoulders, the team rises and makes their way across the plaza, heading down one of the side streets toward the hill. The shops give way to another small neighborhood. Before long, they come to a waist-high chain link fence bordering one side of the street. Beyond the fence lies a small school.

A playground occupies most of the grounds where kids once enjoyed recesses. Swings oscillate slightly in the breeze and a merry-go-round slowly circles with a low squeal of metal grinding on metal.

The emptiness is more than just no one in the playground. It’s much more than that. There should be shrieks of gaiety from kids playing — running from one piece of equipment to another or playing tag. Franklin’s eyes linger on the empty playground. He has a daughter in San Diego that is the right age to be cavorting with her friends in a playground such as this.

Everyone eyes the empty slides, swings, and monkey bars. There is a prevalent loneliness, as if the equipment misses the kids who once played here. The ground misses the stomp of little feet and the air their cries of laughter. More than likely though, it’s the missing presence of those that should be here that fills the team member’s hearts and souls.

“Keep alert, everyone. Remember why we’re here,” Krandle whispers into his mic.

The trance breaks and they resume their cautious yet quick pace. Only Franklin’s eyes steal over to the playground periodically as the team passes by.

They find a road that begins a shallow ascent and before long, they are climbing into the hills beyond the central part of town. Houses on the hill are built farther apart with larger yards. As they scale upward, stunted trees grow more numerous. To the east, the small trees give way to firs farther up the hillside. Close to the top of the small hill, the wall Krandle spotted from afar comes into view. The team is close to their goal.

A wrought iron entrance gate built between tall brick walls bars the roadway. Several abandoned vehicles block the road in front of the gate and behind them, on the far side of the gate, sits a shuttle bus. Drawing cautiously closer, it becomes clear that a large fire once burned fiercely. The bus is a gutted-out hulk and the vehicles in front are scorched from the tremendous heat that once visited this spot. The iron fence has been warped, and one of the gates itself lies against the roof of the nearest car. Carried on the breeze, there remains a faint smell of charred plastic and rubber.

Krandle attempts to peer through the barricade but can only see glimpses of what is behind. It looks like any other neighborhood. Sending the team to the sides against the wall, he steps closer until he is next to one of the vehicles.

A faint, scraping sound comes from the other side of the gate. It’s followed by a quick shuffling noise. Krandle instantly brings his carbine up, aiming toward the noise. The disturbance was close, but he hears nothing now.

He has plenty of cover, but he can’t see much beyond the barricade. Against his better judgment, he leaps onto the hood of the car. Getting a better view beyond, he spots a small figure moving away. Whoever it is appears to be trying to run away, but a limp is slowing them down. The long brown hair and small stature gives Krandle the impression of a young girl. The girl’s emaciation is evident even from this distance, and the fact that she’s out in the day is a clear indication she’s not a night runner.

The girl looks back over her shoulder and, upon seeing him, yelps and starts hobbling away faster. Her increased speed isn’t much, but the fear she exhibits is. Krandle calls out to her, but the girl only emits another cry as she rounds a corner and vanishes from sight.