A New World: Reckoning Page 3

  Just before entering into the pass, Greg stands in the frigid air to get a look behind. Sure enough, he is able to make out very faint lights from the hostile group to the rear as they drive along the meandering highway. Looking at their pursuers, Greg, for the first time, wonders if the choice to follow along this road in pursuit of him and his team is coincidental or if there is something else going on.

  The highway follows the path of a river flowing adjacent to the road. The twists and turns as the stream follows the low points—the road following each change of direction—blocks any further view of their pursuers. The constant curves don’t allow the Stryker to get up to full speed. Greg hopes that the speed they are maintaining is faster than that of those following them. Traveling in a convoy generally lends to a slower pace which alleviates Greg’s apprehension to a degree. However, without anything to verify this, a gut-wrenching anxiety remains.

  The small team, along with those they rescued, is all alone and traveling through an unknown mountain pass, far from home. If the ones behind them manage to catch up, it will be over in minutes except for the bleeding, screaming, and pain. They will just be bodies lying in or near a burnt-out hulk in the middle of the mountainous terrain. Perhaps never seen again, or become a place that kids come to explore and play on the wreckage.

  Looking inside to see how everyone is doing, he observes that a couple of soldiers are napping with their heads tilted back against equipment behind them. The people they rescued are doing what they can to get comfortable within the cramped quarters, shifting to new positions frequently. Lacking is the normal murmur of whispered conversations when any group of people gathers.

  The one thing Greg notes with satisfaction is the absence of panic in the eyes of those awake. There’s a measure of trepidation for sure. Not being able to see the entire picture outside as well as Greg, they are placing their faith in his ability to see them through this. Looking at them, he feels a tremendous weight. Having rescued them, he is responsible for their safety and he isn’t sure that he can provide that for them. That adds to the anxiety of the present situation. There isn’t any surprise tactical card he can play nor take any action that will turn the tables. They can only run and hope it’s enough.

  Night finally falls in full force near a widening of the road at a place called Texas Creek. It’s really nothing more than a bump in the road with streams coming out of the mountains on both sides of the town to join with the river.

  Having to rely on the day-night thermal imaging camera hampers their ability to progress quickly. Greg is apprehensive about using their lights to navigate with even though it will be just as easy to spot them should the group behind catch up.

  No use making it easier for them, Greg thinks as they drive through the small opening in the terrain.

  The highway is desolate with only an occasional small settlement breaking the starkness. Single gas stations with family-style restaurants next to them, their dirt and gravel parking lots empty, slide to the rear as the Stryker motors past them in the dark. These are towns which are likely to hold a few survivors but Greg has no time to stop and find out.

  The group pursuing them appeared to have brought their own fuel supply and, even though they’ll have to stop in order to refuel, they’ll be able to accomplish this faster than the team. Greg hopes that they’ll have to do this soon, giving him time, which means distance, to do the same. That is the one thing that he’ll have to put into the hands of luck. It’ll either work out or it won’t. The choice of refueling or not isn’t an option. The control he does have over it is when they’ll do it, and even with that, he doesn’t have all that much.

  Greg hasn’t spied any sign of their pursuers by the time the crowded slopes open up into another, larger valley. He hopes the others have reached the margins of their pursuit range and have turned back but he has the feeling that they are still following.

  The road leads to a town nestled in the “V” of a triangular-shaped valley, the slopes opening to the left and right. The main road turns left and proceeds along the base of the surrounding hills with the city situated along the northern edge of the freeway. Quickly looking at the map, Greg notes another main road heading northwest around the eastern part of the town, intersecting another north-south highway a few miles away.

  Greg has the driver turn onto a secondary road. He hopes to throw off the pursuit that may still be behind and to look for a hidden place to refuel. A couple of blocks along the road, a small industrial facility opens on the right with several semis parked in the rear. To the left, across the road from the complex, huddled underneath trees, the outlines of trailer houses are visible through the day-night camera.

  Several vehicles sit in open-sided garages attached to the mobile homes with other cars parked in front. The branches of tall trees spread across the roofs as if protecting the structures, but the abodes themselves have an aura of abandonment.

  Ordering the Stryker into the lot, Greg decides to take the risk of refueling. The armored vehicle turns into the dusty lot, taking care to proceed slowly so as to not create a dust cloud. Maneuvering to the back, Greg has the Stryker park behind the tractor trailers in order to hide their outline from view. From their vantage point, they’ll be able to see the lights of anyone emerging from the mountain pass before they reach the city limits.

  “Okay, folks, this has to be quick. We’re going to refuel here as we may not get a chance farther down the road. I want three with the Stryker refueling from the canisters. The rest will siphon fuel from the semis, filling the empty canisters and carrying them back. We’re going to need everyone who can move to help with this. I want it to look like a NASCAR pit stop. I’ll keep watch on the road. At the first sign of our pursuers, we’ll drop what we’re doing and beat cheeks out of here,” Greg says as the Stryker lurches to a halt.

  “A final word of caution. There may be night runners in the area. We can’t help that. I want someone with me to watch for them. If they appear, drop what you’re doing and make for the vehicle. They move faster than us, so no hesitating,” Greg states, finishing as the ramp lowers with a clang.

  With chilled air rushing into the compartment, feet pound down the steel surface. The anxiety of being out at night takes hold as the group frees the fuel canisters and begins the siphoning and refueling process. Three begin pouring diesel into the half-full tanks as the others race to start draining fuel from the large tanks hanging from the sides of the semis. More than one head glances over a shoulder, nervous that night runners might be racing toward them. That fear is stronger than the group chasing them.

  The clanking of the metal cans, the idling Stryker, and the scurry of movement carry across the dirt lot, echoing off the metal prefab buildings. Beams from flashlights waver from place to place as the group carries out their tasks. Greg wanted to keep the lights to a minimum but didn’t have enough NVGs to go around. It’s a risk they have to take in order to refuel. Given that they don’t have a choice about that, their only hope is to accomplish what they need to do quickly.

  Several shrieks punctuate the night air, carrying over the adjacent roofs, and pass through the lot. Every movement halts and all eyes dart toward the sound before turning back to Greg. Greg turns from observing the pass entrance, a shiver running up his spine. Looking quickly to where the highway emerges from the tall peaks, he sees dim lights materialize in the magnified view of his binoculars. It’s time to go, in more ways than one.

  “Okay, everyone, that’s our signal. Pack up what you’re doing and get inside,” Greg says, his voice only loud enough to be heard by those in the lot.

  A bustle of noise ensues as the group scurries to carry their gear to the Stryker. One by one, the flashlights wink off. Shrieks carry in the darkness, closer this time. Gear is quickly stowed and feet once again pound on the steel ramp. Greg glances again at the approaching vehicles to find them already drawing near to the outskirts of the town.

  Shrieks gain intensity and volume. Greg
sees several night runners emerge from between the mobile homes across the street streaking in his direction, with more pouring into view behind those, their faces seeming to glow even in the darkness. The last of those with him scramble inside the Stryker. Greg hurries up the ramp as the first of the night runners enters the lot, their screams filling the night. The ramp closes and the latches are sealed as the first night runner hammers against the vehicle.

  Greg rushes across the tangle of legs and bodies to close the cupola against the sudden assault. The Stryker rocks as the night runners throw themselves against the sides and clamber on top.

  “Get us the fuck out of here!” Greg tells the driver. “And keep us out of view of the main highway.”

  The vehicle surges forward, throwing the occupants against each other. Exiting the lot on a side street, Greg turns the camera to the rear. Behind, night runners are giving chase. Residential houses pass as the Stryker gains speed, creating a separation from the night runners. Greg briefly wonders, as the creatures fall farther behind, how the night runners will survive in this high-mountain town once winter arrives in full force. Looking past the horde chasing them, he doesn’t see any sign of the Strykers and Humvees that must have, by now, entered the town. Hopefully turning off the main road and keeping out of sight has helped lose that pursuit.

  The secondary road turns to the northwest, angling through more of the town. A pack of night runners races out in front from a side street a block away. Not missing a stride, they turn as one, coming head on.

  “Go through them,” Greg orders the driver.

  Mom-and-pop store fronts pass along the sides as the Stryker rapidly closes the distance. At the last moment, the night runners dart to the sides, barely avoiding being taken under the wheels. Rapidly changing directions, the creatures turn to give chase but give up after a couple of blocks as the Stryker outdistances them.

  Racing past the small downtown area, they enter another residential neighborhood. House after house, block after block, slides by until they leave the town and enter the surrounding countryside. The road passes once cultivated fields as it heads toward the north-south highway a few miles ahead.

  As the high country road angles closer to the highway, which intersects the main east-west highway from which they entered the town, Greg focuses on the ever-nearing road.

  “Fuck!” he shouts in frustration. “Driver, turn us around and be quick about it.”

  On the other highway, the one they are endeavoring to get to, the one Greg hoped was an escape route, he sees dim lights from several vehicles that are racing across its surface.

  People are thrown together as the brakes are applied. The Stryker leans from centrifugal forces as the driver turns the large, heavy vehicle on the narrow road. They exit the road, traveling down into a ditch before doing a one-eighty, climbing back onto the harder surface. As they work their way through the turn, Greg focuses on the number of vehicles traveling at high speed on the other road.

  He counts their numbers and comes up short from the initial tally he made near Pueblo. That means some have turned back, are refueling at some location, or are coming through the town, where he and the others are now headed back toward. If that is the case, they could be trapped between the two forces.

  Keeping an eye toward the vehicles on the road, he sees one of the Strykers slow. A bright flash lights up the night. A roaring, concussive noise engulfs Greg’s Stryker, jarring the vehicle and lifting it momentarily to the side. Pings and thuds from shrapnel bounce off the metallic skin, causing those inside to duck instinctively. If there was any thought that the pursuing vehicles might be friendly, that is erased by the shell exploding on the embankment next to the Stryker. The only positive note is that, if there were any night runners clinging to the top, they aren’t anymore.

  The other vehicles along the road halt. Another bright flash from a Stryker leads to an eruption of dirt and smoke ahead, on the other side of the road from Greg and the racing Stryker. The range had obviously been adjusted with the shell passing just in front of the vehicle. Seeing the blast through the thermal camera, Greg is thankful that the Strykers firing on them aren’t equipped with TOW missiles.

  Red streaks erupt from the roadway. At first, they seem to travel slowly across the dark landscape before suddenly picking up speed. The tracers lag and pass behind Greg’s vehicle. As the aim is corrected, the streaks of light begin impacting into the surrounding fields, falling short of their intended target. The road Greg is on angles away from the other vehicles and each second increases the distance between them. Moments after starting, the firing from the .50 cals mounted on the Humvees and Strykers cease.

  With the stoppage of the .50 cals, the two Strykers accompanying the convoy increase their rate of cannon fire. Near misses jolt Greg’s Stryker as it careens down the highway. Turning his view toward the town in the distance, the thermal imaging shows several Humvees arriving at the edge of the city where they then come to a stop. Moments later, they are joined by two Strykers who emerge onto the highway leading out of the city.

  “Off the road, now!” Greg commands the driver. “To the southwest.”

  The Stryker veers to the right, canting heavily as it makes the high-speed turn. It jolts as it heads down an embankment and reaches level ground. Crashing through a fence and entering a field, the Stryker plows through the tall grass of whatever agricultural product was planted last.

  The second group from the vicinity of the city adds its fire to those of their comrades. Explosions blast dirt and grass up and outward around the Stryker. Those inside hear metal shards ring off the hull from near misses. One piece slices through the metal skin just above the heads of those sitting on the benches, imbedding itself into the opposite wall with a solid thwack.

  “Everyone down,” Greg calls. To the driver, he adds, “Keep it floored and be damned about what lies ahead.”

  Attempting to throw off the aim of those firing on them, the driver weaves randomly as they race through the field, jostling everyone inside. The Stryker lifts off the ground, becoming momentarily weightless before slamming back down. Several screams fill the interior. Greg is thrown against the forward bulkhead, smashing his head against it. As the vehicle stabilizes following the too-near miss, he feels a painful, burning sensation on his forehead. A warm trickle makes its way down between his eyes and the bridge of his nose. Wiping his head with the back of his hand, he sees a red smear of blood on his glove.

  “Motherfuck,” he mutters.

  His ringing ears mute the noise of the thundering explosions outside. However, it’s not enough for him to miss the driver shout, “Hang on.”

  Entering a thin screen of trees, the Stryker encounters an embankment lining a large stream. The nose drops sharply and the vehicle hits the water with a tremendous splash. Greg is thrown forward, hitting his head once again. Momentarily stunned, he can only think that they’ve taken a direct hit.

  The wheels gain purchase on the rocky bottom and the Stryker heaves forward, gaining the far embankment. Straining up the bank, the vehicle slams down, finding level ground once again. Regaining his senses, Greg sees that they’ve entered another thin line of trees. The Stryker accelerates through adjoining farming fields. Looking toward the two groups assailing them, he notices that the trees along embankment are blocking any direct line of sight. The explosions, which ceased when they entered the first tree line, don’t resume.

  Having left their field of vision, Greg can envision the two groups desperately racing down the roads to block him before he can gain either highway. The narrow, steeply embanked road that the first group is on will hinder their reversal. The second group will have to navigate the streets of the town to get back to the highway. Providing nothing interferes with their progress, Greg has the most direct angle to the crossroads, perhaps gaining them a little time and space. The race is on.

  Into the Night

  As the Stryker speeds across the darkened landscape, running through fenc
e lines as if they didn’t exist, Greg wonders what damage the Stryker has taken. So far it appears to be running as it should and he hopes that will continue. The near misses have surely stripped everything off the top. They had managed to almost fill their tanks, so they have some mileage available to them, but Greg hopes they were also able to retain some of their fuel canisters.

  “Make for the crossroads,” Greg tells the driver. “And don’t let off on the throttle.”

  The engine strains as the Stryker powers up a small hill. As they top the rise, they find themselves on a small airfield and speed across a narrow, paved runway. Greg thinks of how perfectly set up the two groups were. It’s as if they knew exactly where he was and, more importantly, where he was heading. He hopes they don’t have a drone aloft, or worse, a direct satellite feed. He and his group are already at a disadvantage. If he’s not able to maneuver tactically, if his position is constantly known, then it is only a matter of time.

  Fuel, a breakdown, bad timing; any of these will eventually lead to them coming within range of the large caliber guns again and wiped from the face of the earth within minutes. For now, the only thing they can do is run and hope they make it to the crossroads first. After that, it’s a crap shoot, and they’ll just have to take it as it comes.

  The few buildings comprising the airfield facilities vanish from view as the Stryker races down a runway covered with a fine layer of dirt, piled in small drifts in some places. Reaching the end, they descend the hill where the airstrip is located and enter more fields. Not too far ahead, past a couple of fenced-in fields, are the buildings which surround the crossroads. From there, highways stretch north, south, east, and west.

  In the distance, to the north and east, along their respective roads, Greg spots the dim lights of the two other groups as they make rapidly for the same crossroad. He gives a sigh of relief when he sees the distance of the other vehicles. Greg’s decision to head cross country and make directly for the intersection, coupled with the difficulties the other groups had, have given him an advantage. Barring anything unforeseen happening in the next few moments, Greg and the others will reach the crossroads first with enough distance separating them from their pursuers.