John O'Brien - Conspiracy

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Krandle walks to the others of his team to confer when one of the men hails him.

“What’s going to happen to us? You’re taking us with you, aren’t you?” the man asks on the verge of panic. His eyes have the fear that newly arrived hope is about to be yanked away.

“We’re going to stay to get you back on your feet and then guide you to a safe place that’s been set up,” Krandle answers.

“Thank you, sir,” the man says.

Krandle nods and joins the others. “Okay, gents, here’s the plan…”

Krandle stands at the edge of the mall parking lot, watching the day draw to a close. The clouds have given way allowing the sunset to bathe the sky in glorious reds and oranges. The horizon is painted as if a great fire burns there, which, technically, it does. A cool breeze blows at his back toward the ocean and where the rest of his team lies safely submerged with the Santa Fe . That is with the exception of Blanchard who is also remaining behind to minister to the weakened survivors.

During the day, the team relayed equipment from the sub to shore. Krandle remembers Franklin’s raised eyebrows as he read through the list Krandle gave him, but then he shrugged and tucked it in his pocket. To a person, everyone on the team volunteered to stay the night — even Speer, which surprised Krandle.

“This place is as secure as anyplace else. I’m only staying because these people need hope more than they need firepower. Besides, Captain Leonard will get cranky if he doesn’t see your ugly mugs guarding his boat,” he remembers telling them.

The last rays of the sun catch the top of the choppy ocean waves and the spray where the waves bash against the rocks farther offshore. Krandle wishes he could watch the last of the glorious sunset but knows it’s time to retreat — the night doesn’t belong to them anymore. It’s not the sanctuary of dark that they once coveted and used to hide their operations. Now it has been turned against them.

Walking through the restaurant, he rechecks the trip wire and the placement of the claymore he set up earlier. He would have placed it closer to the kitchen but didn’t want to risk jarring the freezer door loose from the back blast. Earlier that day, he and Ortiz set another one up on the roof away from the freezer.

He enters the tight quarters. Blanchard is kneeling by the four, checking the IV drips. The two men look nervous as the door swings shut and the girl remains close to one of them. The freezer door closes with a sharp click and they drape a chain around a thick C-clamps bolted securely to the door and adjoining wall. With the aid of a faint beam from a flashlight, they lock the chain in place.

With the doors closed, the aromatic nature of the inside becomes more prevalent. It’s more than just body odor. The weaker ones sitting on the floor weren’t able to move much and have soiled themselves. Blanchard cleaned them up as best he could, and the team found additional clothing for them. As the two men observed the weaker ones being bathed, they turned away, feeling ashamed that they didn’t do this for the others.

“We were concentrating on finding food and water,” the man named Jim said at the time and walked away.

The men light a camp lantern, casting a dim light across the interior. They break into rations the team brought, and the girl, casting a smile at Krandle, opens the wrapper of an energy bar. Krandle remembers Walker’s warning about the night runner’s heightened sense of smell but lets the others eat.

After all, it’s not like they can’t smell us already , Krandle thinks.

“We haven’t had the chance to get acquainted earlier. I’m Vance,” he says, passing his canteen of water to the others.

“I’m Charles,” says the man who has done most of the talking. “This is Jim and Maggie. Those over there are Carol, Miguel, Ritchie, and…shit, I can’t remember the other dude’s name.”

“The one attending them is…” Krandle begins, but is interrupted by a faint shriek coming from outside.

Charles and Jim tense and look toward the door, their bites of food forgotten. Maggie looks up with terrified eyes. The sound comes as if from far away, but the shelter of the locker mutes any noise. Other screams begin to fill the night. The night runners have emerged.

Krandle tenses along with the others and turns toward the door, his M-4 lowered but ready. Blanchard comes up beside him and assumes the same stance. A crash from inside the café carries to them. The volume and number of shrieks rise. Krandle hears a whimper from behind and glances to see Maggie folded tightly against Charles. Charles, in return, has his arms wrapped around the girl, but his eyes are wide with fear. Krandle is sure those eyes have seen enough death to be terrified of those now prowling around outside. He himself is nervous remembering the run through the jungle with night runners hard on their heels. He turns back to the door.

The ground shakes and a roaring blast penetrates the thick walls. The compression from being inside an enclosed space pounds at their eardrums. Through the rolling boom, Krandle hears Maggie shriek and one of the men scream. The lantern blinks out, but the light returns seconds later. The blast rolls away, leaving silence outside and all of them sticking a finger in their ears trying to clear them. All, that is, except Maggie who has crouched in fear and has her ears covered with her hands.

Krandle snaps on his light to check on the door and is relieved when he sees it is still whole and tightly shut. He turns it back off to conserve his power.

“What…what was that?” Charles asks.

“A little present I left them,” Krandle answers.

Blanchard goes to check on the patients and is relieved, as Krandle was with the door, to find the IVs still in place.

Blanchard rejoins Krandle. A short time later, the shrieks resume, although they are more muted. Krandle motions upward with the barrel of his carbine, indicating that the night runners are on the roof above. In the dim light, Blanchard nods.

Another thunderous blast shakes the interior, this one not as momentous as the last.

“Another of your presents?” Charles asks as the booming noise fades away.

“Yep.”

“How many did you leave?” Jim asks.

“That’s it,” Krandle answers.

The silence lasts this time. After a while, Krandle notices the others fall asleep and details shifts for Blanchard and him to watch over the group. The night passes without further incident.

In the morning, Krandle opens the door. The draft that pours in is a welcome relief from the stuffy and odorous interior. Charles, Jim, and Maggie startle awake at the sound of the door opening. They look about confused and fearful until they see Krandle standing, framed by the light pouring in.

Shaking his head to clear it, Charles says, “Thanks…um, Vance. That’s the best sleep we’ve had since this whole thing began.”

Krandle nods and exits to the kitchen. A lingering smell of gunpowder pervades the air, along with the iron scent of death. One of the swinging kitchen doors hangs loosely on its lower hinge. In the middle of the debris lies a shredded body of a night runner having been apparently blown through the hole in the ceiling from the blast on the roof. Krandle checks on the bloody remains. Multiple wounds have flayed the back of the night runner with the right side of its head completely missing. He had set the claymore on the roof to hit the night runners from behind. Looking upward, Krandle sees another body draped in the opening, its arms hanging down limply. Blood is pooled on the rubble below from where it dripped from the fingertips.

He rips the kitchen door from its remaining hinge and enters the restaurant. Chairs and the remnants of tables are strewn throughout with a couple of the chairs having been tossed outside by the force of the blast. The whole interior is shredded — bits of wallpaper hang loosely, and the counter tops are ripped up in places. Scattered across the floor lie several night runners, some whole and others leaving body parts liberally dispersed throughout — all bloody and almost beyond recognition. Droplets and smears of blood coat the interior.