John O'Brien - Conspiracy

“What is it, Chief?” Franklin asks from his position.

“A small girl. She ran away and vanished down a street,” Krandle answers.

Managing to work their way through the barricade, they regroup on the other side. The housing here appears in better shape and, from first glance, seems to be one of those self-contained developments. A shopping center complete with restaurants is off to one side with a school on the other. The central area is taken up with pristine houses anchored by parallel streets.

“Which way did she go?” Blanchard asks.

“Toward the shopping center,” Krandle answers.

“Well, I guess that answers the question if someone is still alive here,” Franklin mentions.

“Okay, just because there is…or are survivors here, they may not take kindly to our presence. If we’re threatened, we throw a wall of steel out and disengage. Our exfil is here through the gate. Our rendezvous point is the CRCC if anything happens. If possible, we hold there until we all arrive or it becomes one hour prior to sundown. It’s obvious that night runners are here, but who knows how many there are. One hour prior to sundown, gents, then whoever is there casts off for the Santa Fe . Are there any questions?” Krandle asks.

Hearing none, Krandle continues, “Okay, here’s the plan. I’ll proceed ahead. We don’t want to spook anyone by coming across too aggressively. Franklin, you’ll take the team along behind covering. I don’t want you too close but close enough to engage if we come under fire. The hope is that whoever is here will see our peaceful intentions and deal with us in the same manner. That was a little girl at the main gate and not armed men so I’m guessing this isn’t an armed establishment. That doesn’t mean they won’t defend themselves, but I doubt they’ll come at us aggressively.”

“It’s your dime, Chief,” Franklin states. “We’ll have your back.”

Krandle nods and lets his M-4 hang at his side by the sling. He heads in the direction where he saw the girl vanish. Every so often, he calls out, naming himself and their intentions. He’s staking his life that whoever is here is peaceful. If there are survivors — and the girl is an indication that there are — they are a rarity from what he’s seen and they need to be found.

He reaches the corner and peers around. A parking lot serving the little shopping center is just ahead to the right with houses set next to each other stretching down his side of the street. It’s pretty easy to pick up the girl’s tracks in the dirt as they head down the road and then angle toward the mall itself. They are the only ones visible as the wind seems to sweep any others away on a regular basis.

With a sigh, he steels himself and steps around the corner. He’s in the open for anyone to see and the feeling isn’t the coziest. Of course, they’ve been more or less in the open since they arrived, but it’s the mental part of presenting a target on purpose that gives Krandle the nervous feeling in his stomach. He intends to live through this crisis of the new world and not become just another corpse lining some unknown street.

Walking out in the open like this doesn’t improve those chances , he thinks, following the tracks and angling toward the shops.

Facing the stores, Krandle stops in the middle of the parking lot. He holds his hands in front of him, palms upward, and calls out. There isn’t any response or movement that he can discern. With another sigh, he begins walking closer.

The tracks lead through a glassless window of a restaurant. Standing to one side, Krandle peers inside quickly. The furniture has all been pushed to one side of the small establishment. Tracks lead toward the back of the restaurant and vanish between a double set of swinging doors, presumably leading into the kitchen. The interior is shadowed, but it’s not completely dark due to some reflected light. There is also light showing through narrow windows inset in the wooden kitchen doors.

Krandle waves the others forward and calls out into the gloom. There’s no reply from inside. He turns the flashlight on once again and aims it into the interior. The beam brings the murk into clearer focus. A counter with stools occupies the rear and right side of the small café. Tipped over cups and some silverware lies scattered across the top and the usual restaurant accoutrements adorn the walls behind — coffee maker, juice machine, dishes, etc. Everything is covered with a light film of dirt except for the definite path leading to the double doors behind the far counter.

“This is where the tracks from the girl lead. Speer, you and I are going in. The rest of you set up a perimeter facing out,” Krandle says as the others arrive.

Krandle and Speer step though, their boots crunching on remnants of broken glass under the window just inside. They walk past the counter to the doors leading to the kitchen, taking positions on either side.

Easing forward to peek through one of the windows, Krandle observes the source of the light beyond. The roof inside has partially collapsed. The debris covers the cold grills, small stove, and a prep table filling the center of the kitchen. Several pots and pans poke through the wreckage.

Krandle withdraws from the window and gives Speer a shake of his head indicating he didn’t see anyone. Speer nods his understanding.

“Ready?” Krandle whispers; Speer gives another nod.

It’s one thing to stroll across an open area to show you don’t intend harm, but entirely different to do the same thing going into a small room where you know others are and they aren’t responding. Krandle is only willing to carry the open intentions so far — small girl or not.

With a nod from Krandle, they both push into the room, Krandle going left and Speer to the right. They bring their M-4s up as they pour into the room. Their entrance is quiet and swift, like a flowing rush of air. Barrels follow eyes in rapid movements as they rapidly search the room, still moving toward their respective corners.

“Clear,” Krandle hears Speer whisper.

“Clear,” he calls back.

Turning toward Speer, Krandle sees he couldn’t advance very far due to the rubble from the fallen ceiling. Getting Speer’s attention, he points to a steel meat locker door where the dust has been disturbed. They both gather to one side of the door.

“This is Chief Petty Officer Vance Krandle of the United States Navy. We mean no harm and have come to help,” he calls out.

A shuffling sound comes from the other side of the door and faint whispers, then silence. A moment passes.

“Are you really from the Navy?” a voice calls.

“Yes, sir, we are,” Krandle replies.

“Shut up. We don’t really have a choice, do we? Look at us. We won’t make it much longer regardless of who’s on the other side. Now open it,” the voice says, obviously talking to someone else inside.

Krandle hears a rattling sound like a chain being dragged against the door. The door opens and a stench rolls out. It’s the pungent smell of body odor mixed with…well, more body odor. Looking inside, he sees seven very emaciated people staring back at him. Four of them are sitting against walls in the back of the enclosed room, looking like it’s taking all of their energy just to stay upright. Those four stare back at him as if they are already dead. Only the fact that they slowly blink gives testament that they are still holding onto life.

Two very thin men stand near the open door with the girl he saw earlier clutching one of the men’s pant leg and peeking out from behind. Krandle lowers his weapon as he stares into eyes that have given up hope. It’s hard to tell anyone’s age through the grime covering them, but they seem to be in their twenties or thirties with the exception of the girl who appears to be eleven or twelve.