John O'Brien - Sanctuary

I feel a slight resistance in my arm as my point meets the tender skin and drives inward. Blood splashes across my forehead. Putting my shoulder into the thrust, my knife plunges further into the night runner’s neck and comes to a stop against its spine. I withdraw the blade, step forward putting my right leg behind its right ankle, and push with my shoulder. My push trips it and sends it to the floor where it hits with a thump flat on its back. It lies gargling for a moment and then is silent.

I turn to the sound of the patio door blinds stirring. Another night runner darts into the room. I’m blocking the closet door so Robert and Lynn can’t fire at the new intruder. It stops a couple of feet inside, thrusts its head forward and shrieks. The scream fills the smallish room to the point that it seems the walls shake with its intensity. Rage and adrenaline still fills me like a heated glow but there is a numbness and calm accompanying it as well. I feel like I’m wrapped in a heated void. I hold my arms out to the side with my knife dripping blood, thrust forward in a similar manner, and roar back at it. A startled look crosses its features as I step towards it. It turns and darts back through the blinds. I hear a sickening thud and crack issue mutely from outside followed by a scream of pain.

I check the hall and front doorway to find them empty of any further attempts to invade the apartment. Walking to the patio, I step through the shattered glass door and look down at the driveway to the rear. The night is silent. Below, the night runner that fled is crawling slowly across the pavement having apparently leapt off the balcony and broke one or both of its legs on impact. I walk back in, grab my M-4 off the floor where I dropped it, and put a fresh mag in – my last one. Flicking the release, the bolt drives home, chambering a round.

Returning outside and clearing the area, I put the sight on 2x and center the crosshairs on the night runner. I continue to stare at the creature slowly and painfully crawling across the dark pavement for a moment. The thought of leaving it to deal with the dawn coming a few hours away runs briefly through my mind. The fear turned to anger is rapidly disappearing as the danger recedes and I feel a little sorry for the night runner below me. Regardless of the situation prior, no person, animal, or other deserves to be in pain or to suffer needlessly. With the crosshair centered, I send a fast-moving projectile into its head, bringing its crawling, and its agony, to a sudden halt.

Looking out at the narrow view of the bed and patio blinds, Robert kneels on one knee in the center of the group against the back wall of the walk-in closet. Clothing hangs down to either side of him. His heart thumps inside his chest as the thuds echo inside the apartment from night runners slamming into the front door. A particularly loud bang shakes the walls around him and he hears Bri gasp beside him.

“It’s okay, Bri. We’ll be fine. That’s Dad out there and we’re here. It’ll all be okay,” he says reassuring her.

His dad whispers at the door that Bri’s mic is on. In his peripheral, he sees Bri scramble trying to find the right switch and notices her look up at him. He reaches over and moves the switch on her mic cord. The breathing in his ears, that he assumed was his dad’s, falls silent. Several more slams resonate.

“Very well motherfuckers! Bring it,” he hears his dad whisper through his earpiece.

His heart rate quickens knowing his dad and his idioms. Those words mean something is about to happen and his dad is steeling himself for it. He looks at Lynn kneeling beside him in the same manner; on her knee with her M-4 pointed outward. She turns her head to him and nods. He feels confident yet scared at the same time. He knows he will react okay but will it be enough. He is glad he gave his dad that hug before leaving the bathroom. For some reason, it makes him feel better knowing that he did. It seemed the right thing to do. He almost wants the action to start so he can get rid of this feeling inside and just react like the previous times. This nervousness is close to unbearable. A tremendous crash blasts through the closet.

“They’re in,” his dad calls out.

Light flashes across the open doorway followed a split second later by muted gunshots. This is quickly followed by more. The first bursts of fire are trailed by single shots. Robert tightens his grip and slides his finger into the trigger guard. His thumb rubs along the selector switch to affirm that it’s set on auto. If they get in this far, semi just isn’t going to cut it , he thinks keeping his focus on the doorway and far blinds. The flashes of light and sounds are near continuous except for pauses where he assumes his dad is reloading. The mixture of shrieks and screams of pain make it difficult to hear anything else.

“How many of you fuckers are there?” Robert hears his dad say.

“Jack, are you okay?” Lynn asks.

“Yeah. I think they’re fucking breeding out here,” his dad replies. Robert chuckles knowing things are okay if his dad is keeping his humor.

While concentrating on the things within his view, he is reminded of those times where he and his dad laughed until their eyes bled tears. They have an identical sense of humor, perhaps stemming from the countless hours they spent together, and they see things in life the same way. Sadness folds over him as he remembers those times now with his dad out there fighting for his and their lives.

The sound of glass breaking rides over the howls and shrieks from inside the apartment bringing Robert’s entire focus back to the moment. The blinds part and a night runner enters the bedroom. He pulls the trigger with his dot centered on the chest. Multiple strobes flash off the walls of the tight closet as both his and Lynn’s carbines fire at the same time. The night runner is launched off its feet and back through the blinds from the multiple, forceful strikes on its body.

Robert sees his dad step back into his range of vision but is only able to see his back. “Thanks,” his dad says.

“You’re welcome, Dad,” Roberts says.

“No worries, Jack,” Lynn responds. “How’s it going out there?”

“Getting a little sporty,” he replies.

Robert knows what “getting a little sporty” means to his dad. It is a little more than the normal “getting a little sporty.” There was a time when he and his dad rode their mountain bikes up this long, steep ridge to the top of a mountain on the Fourth of July to watch the area fireworks. They sat on a mountain top, tired and exhausted from the ride, drinking Dr. Peppers and watched the light shows in the region below. The sun had set on everyone else but the glow of the sunset still shown on them. After a while, darkness set in firmly and the fireworks ended. It was pitch black out and they only had small flashlights – yeah, that one wasn’t thought all of the way through – which illuminated the ground in front for only five feet at best. The brakes only worked marginally on the exciting ride back down the steep slope. It was hard to keep the bikes under control as they careened off rocks and the edge of the cliff came close several times. When they finally reached the bottom, his dad said the same thing, “That was a little sporty.” Truth be told, Robert had thought it rather fun and exciting.

The one other time he remembered his dad using that phrase was the time they kayaked across a large, open body of water, the wind kicked up against an incoming tide and they paddled across with waves breaking over their head.

“Oh hell no! You don’t get to do that,” Robert hears his dad say over the radio.

His grip tightens on the handgrip of his M-4. The reality of the moment sinks in and he feels an intense fear but with an underlying calm. He feels a certain confidence with his dad and Lynn with him. Moments later, he sees his dad being catapulted in the air past the opening with a night runner on top of him; the two of them disappearing off to the right.