John O'Brien - Takedown

We are soon passing a large campus to our left. When Reynolds mentioned school, I assumed that she meant a high school or something similar. The complex we are about to pull into is a college campus. Not that it changes anything but the area is huge. I’m glad she was fairly clear on what building they are in. Of course, it wouldn’t be that hard to figure out by the scene before us as we turn into the main entrance.

Ahead, just as advertised, sits a central building just off the main lot. The structure looks like one of those four foot ant hills that has been kicked — night runners are swarming everywhere. They are climbing up drain pipes and entering through broken windows and doors. There must be hundreds of them with more running across the parking lot to join the mass. I’m guessing the sound of gunfire within is drawing them but it’s not like I can tell Reynolds to stop shooting.

Some of the night runners break off at the sight of us and head in our direction. I’m sure they can’t hear us as it’s difficult to hear ourselves breathe, even from this distance. The ear-splitting shrieks are filling the night. Radio communication will be hard if we have to go any farther into the tempest ahead.

“Verify that you’re on the third floor?” I ask Reynolds.

There’s a pause. “That’s affirmative, sir, third floor,” she answers, sounding out of breath.

“Take care of those coming at us, then sweep the ones off that are on and around the building. Stay clear of the third floor,” I say to the gunner, slipping to the side to give him room.

“Copy that, sir. They’ll be clear shortly.”

I notify Reynolds and her group that we are commencing fire on the building but staying clear of the third floor. The shrieks outside, with so many night runners eager to get at their prey, are amazingly loud. I’ve heard a mass of night runners in a building before, but this is as deafening as I’ve ever heard. It’s not the low intensity sounds that you can feel in your heart; it’s the high-pitched ones that you can feel crawling across your skin. The very walls vibrate.

The whine of the turret turning and then the staccato firing of the .50 cal firing overhead barely register above the screams. I watch on the monitor as long streams of fire reach outward into the night. The devastation when the heavy rounds, each loaded with a tremendous amount of kinetic energy, hit flesh and bone is grisly to watch. It’s like watching a train wreck — gruesome yet you can’t tear your eyes away from it. Bodies are propelled backward when bullets hit the center mass and when they hit arms or legs, the limbs separate. Heads disappear in a bloody mist.

The night runners heading toward us all go down in a row, one after the other, as the large bore machine gun overhead sweeps through them. The ones near the campus building turn in our direction as the gun opens up. Night runners on drain pipes or crawling through windows look back fearfully as their approaching ranks simply cease to exist.

“How many do you estimate inside, Reynolds?” I ask as the firing ceases and the turret whines once more, lining up with new targets.

“I’m not sure, sir. There are a few in the hall, but I can hear a lot more on the stairs and floors below. We’re down to our last few mags,” she answers.

“Are you at the front, rear, or side of the building?”

“The front, sir.”

“Do you have any rope by chance?” I ask.

“No.”

It’s now that I wish the Stryker had one of those high-lift ladders like a structural fire engine. Getting them from the windows while keeping a suppressive effort on the front would be the best solution but it’s not one we have.

I quickly consult with Greg. “It looks like we’ll have to go inside. Just taking care of the ones out here isn’t going to do it as they’re running low on ammo.”

“That sucks, but if it’s what we have to do, then it is. How do you want to do it?” he asks.

“I figure we can clear the front and back the Stryker to the entrance doors. Blow them apart and lower the ramp right into the entrance foyer. The Stryker will block the runners from getting around and to us. Leave the driver and gunner to keep the front clear. You take your team and maintain a close perimeter inside to keep the Stryker clear of any night runners. I’ll take Red Team and sweep upstairs, taking extra ammo. Once we reach the soldiers, we’ll have additional firepower to fight our way back down. If we run into too many on the way, well, then we tried and have to figure something else out.”

“One team and three floors filled with night runners. That’s not the optimum solution, Jack.”

“I don’t see any other way. If you have another, please share it,” I respond.

“Unfortunately, I don’t,” Greg says. “Do you mean you are taking Robert and Bri through the building with you?”

“You are going to attract a lot of attention with the Stryker so I don’t really see a ‘safe’ place, so yes, I’m taking them,” I reply.

“Your choice, Jack.” Again, with that.

I turn and give a quick rundown of the plan. To Red Team, I brief, “Gonzalez, you and McCafferty in front. Henderson and Denton, keep our back sides clear. Robert, Bri, and I will take the middle to lend support where needed. We’ll be in a moving perimeter. Stack on corners. If we come across any open doors, we’ll be closing them to try and keep our backsides clear. Anticipate that any number of night runners inside will be heading toward the Stryker and we may bump into them. Remember, there is no ‘hiding’ from them so we engage any we see. If we run across too many to handle, we conduct a fighting withdrawal in the same positions. When we do manage to reach the kids and soldiers, same formation out with the kids in the middle. The other soldiers will be used as fire support if needed but mainly used to keep the kids moving. We’ll keep the front and rear. Any questions?”

I am met with stern nods. It’s approaching game time and we steel ourselves. Tension is palpable as we are about to launch into a horde of night runners within a large darkened structure. This is something I was hoping we’d be able to avoid, well, forever with finding the distribution center, yet here we are.

The staccato bursts of the gun open up. The tracers streak into the darkness in slow motion, seeming to arc as they pour toward the structure. The rounds send out a shower of sparks where they strike the thick, brick walls, and, in some places, pound through the building. They strike windows that haven’t already been broken with an explosion of glass and wood. Night runners in the middle of crawling over window frames are shoved violently inside, coating the interior walls and floor with sprays of gore. The ones scaling the drain pipes are thrown clear, splashing the exterior with splotches and streaks of blood.

The gun is walked across the front of the building and up the sides, clearing the walls of night runners from the surfaces before it is turned on the crowds waiting their turn to get in. The bullets tear into the gathered masses, shattering bone, tearing flesh, and ripping through internals. Night runners fall as if a scythe ran through their midst. A single .50 caliber round carries so much inertia, because of its weight and speed, that it is able to slash through multiple bodies. The carnage is horrific. The .50 cal, doing its job mindlessly, ceases firing with smoke drifting from the end of its barrel.

There’s not a single night runner remaining in front of the building. The shrieks that were so prevalent, heard even through the metal skin of the Stryker, diminishes. A few wounded night runners crawl on the sidewalk leading to the building, in the tall grass surrounding it, and over pavement slick with blood.