John O'Brien - Takedown

“We could leave,” he replies.

“I suppose there’s always that. But we’re here so we might as well see where the rabbit hole leads.”

The ramp rolls down and the teams disembark. The sounds of boots running across the hard surface fill the once silent streets and the teams quickly take their positions. Red Team splits and goes left and right covering the radio station. Greg’s team sets up a perimeter covering the street and other buildings, leaving two of his team manning the Stryker. The street quiets with only the sound of the idling vehicle and the whine of the turret tracking. I step up beside the dirt entrance and pause. I half expect a shout or the crack of gunfire but the only thing that permeates the middle of this small town is an air of anticipation.

No one rushes out to envelop us with welcoming arms. There is only us staring at a silent radio station. I look around at the rest of the town, the teams’ positions, and the Stryker idling behind me, most with weapons pointed at the building. If someone is in there, I can’t imagine they are having warm and fuzzy feelings about rushing outside or making their presence known. I’m not about to wave the teams off though. Although we are here trying to help, we have to think of our safety first. Yeah, that’s why I’m standing in the open in front of a building where I highly suspect people are located with unknown intentions. Perhaps not my best move ever.

I look down at the tracks leading in and out of the lot. There are quite a few of them, some very fresh. Looking closer, I see that there are a combination of double and single tracks with the double ones close together — too close to be a car or truck. The track imprints looks like whoever is coming here is doing so on quads and dirt bikes. There is, however, no sign of any vehicles parked in or around the dusty lot. The tracks leave a clear trail along the otherwise dust-covered street leading away.

“If anyone is in there, we’re not here to hurt you or cause any trouble,” I call out. “Unless you shoot at us first,” I mutter.

Again, there is no response or movement from within. With a shrug, I step into the lot, keeping to the side and out of the Stryker’s line of fire, and proceed cautiously to the entrance. The dirt-covered concrete slab at the entrance is marred by footprints. Glancing at the prints, I see that they are scuffed making it difficult to pick out any one track. I would look closer but my attention is on the windows and door. Standing against the wall next to the door, I knock firmly repeating my message. Nothing returns except the echo within of my knock.

“You know, sir, they might be more willing to open the door is we didn’t have a .50 cal pointed at it,” Gonzalez radios.

“Yeah, yeah. Move the Stryker out of sight, but be ready to respond,” I radio back.

The armored vehicle revs and backs down the street. Once it’s out of sight, I knock again with the same result. I check the windows but can’t see past the blinds covering them. Leaving the door, I walk to the side of the building. Next to the structure, between it and the tall antenna, sits an older generator. There are more footprints around the generator which are easier to see. I place my shoe next to several of the clear tracks. Now, I’m not a tall man nor have an extra-large shoe size, but my prints are considerably larger than the fresh ones on the ground.

Either this town is full of small people or we’re dealing with kids. At least here . I note that the generator switch is in the ‘off’ position.

This puts a totally different light on the situation. It could be that any remaining adults are sending kids out on errands or the kids are the only ones left. I continue looking at the tracks scattered across the yard and don’t find a single one that matches my size. The tread patterns are all different but they each of them are smaller than mine. I call McCafferty over as she is the smallest among us. Comparing her boot prints with the others, I see that they come close. I suppose we could be dealing with women but am still hard-pressed to figure this out from the tracks. The bottom line is that the fresh tracks and the smoldering ash pile at the bottom of the pit indicate that someone is around.

“I have to admit it’s a little creepy,” Greg says after I describe what I found.

“It’s a little beyond that. Who knows what we’re dealing with on the whole, but at least here, there were kids, women, or a combination of both. We have a choice. We can continue down the yellow brick road or call it good,” I say.

I keep offering it up to see what the others think because, honestly, I’m still of two minds. One says to help if it’s needed; but the other says to bug out. This whole thing is just a little too weird. The spray-painted building and the station going off air just as we pass over speaks of ‘leave us alone’.

“I think we press on, sir. If we are dealing with women and kids, they may need our help,” McCafferty states.

“If they’re still alive, they must be doing okay,” Greg says.

“I do sense a medium-sized pack of night runners to the southeast so they must have some way of dealing with that,” I say. “I’m just throwing that out there.”

“We could remain here. It’s obvious they come to the station and we could wait for them,” Robert says.

“That’s an option as well. We have some time before we have to head back,” I say.

“I’ll be honest with you. I’m kind of curious as to what is smoldering down in that pit and what’s up with this place,” Greg says.

“But you don’t want to go down in it. So, what you’re effectively saying is that you want me to go down and tell you what’s there,” I reply.

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Do you want me to get you a Twinkie while I’m at it?” I ask.

“Ooooh… Twinkies,” McCafferty says and runs toward the Stryker.

“What the hell is that about?” I ask, watching McCafferty race for the vehicle as if a pack of night runners were on her heels.

Greg shrugs with a raised eyebrow. I look to Gonzalez to see if I can glean an answer for McCafferty’s sudden departure. She just shrugs but is wearing a shit-eating grin. McCafferty returns, walking this time, with every eye watching her. With a flourish, she withdraws a box from her vest.

“ Voila ,” she says, brandishing a box of Twinkies.

“As if this day couldn’t get any stranger. Where in the hell did you get those?” I ask.

“Magic, sir,” she answers with a grin. “The only problem is that there are only twelve of them and fourteen of us.”

“I’ll split one with Robert,” I say.

“What the hell. Split your own,” he replies.

“I’ll split one with you, Dad,” Bri says.

“Denton and I will split the other,” Henderson states.

So here we stand, in the middle of small town with ‘Golddigger’ graffiti on the wall of a radio station, chasing down a strange situation in the middle of an apocalypse, eating a Twinkie. You just can’t make shit like this up…but here we are nonetheless. And yet, somehow it seems perfectly normal. And, oddly enough, it eases the tension.

We take our time eating the cream-filled cakes, savoring each bite. It’s a little bit of our past, when things were ‘normal’, coming to us. We are all smiles and, somehow, this moment we’re sharing bonds us even tighter.

“I really don’t want to know where you got these from, do I?” I ask McCafferty, to which she shakes her head.

“Well, thanks,” I add.

“My pleasure, sir.”

Finishing, we stick the wrappers in our pockets and brush the crumbs from our fingers on our pants. Hating to ruin the moment, I return our attention to the situation.