A New World: Conspiracy (23 page)

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.

Krandle steps outside and contacts the rest
of his team, adding a few items to his previous list. While he
waits for their arrival, he grabs a few dish towels from behind the
destroyed counter and begins hauling bodies and parts of bodies out
through the café entrance, the doors of which now lie in the
parking lot. On his third trip in, he notices Charles, and then
Jim, emerge from the kitchen to help. They deposit the bodies on
the sidewalk a couple of stores away.

The others eventually arrive, all shaking
their heads as they look from the bodies to what’s left of the
restaurant interior. During the day, the team scouts for
transportation and supplies for the survivors. They eventually find
a Hummer and a used four-wheel drive SUV from the local dealership.
Locating an auto parts store they can enter, they take one of the
batteries off the shelf. After draining the water from the tanks,
they manage to get the vehicles started and charge the battery.
They will have enough room for all of the people and allow the
weakened ones room to lie down. The team also takes atlases from
the parts store, giving the pertinent ones to the survivors and
keeping the rest.

“It’s not much, but it’s better than
nothing,” Franklin says with a shrug.

With nothing much left to do, the team hangs
in the parking lot, looking over the blue waters of the Pacific and
exchanging lies…aka stories. Blanchard continues checking on his
patients who seem to gather strength as the day progresses. It
would be a peaceful outing if it weren’t for the underlying tension
of knowing that night runners could be hidden within the empty
houses facing them and that darkness would eventually close in.

The night is a repeat of the previous one
with the exception that Krandle had set the explosives outside and
farther from the building. Another blast like the one the preceding
night would bring the restaurant down on them. Although the freezer
would most likely hold up, there is a chance the door could become
blocked.

The days and nights pass. After the second
night of explosions, the night runners leave the small group alone.
Krandle doesn’t know if it’s because the last of the ones in the
area were taken out or if they decided the effort wasn’t worth it.
The four who were weaker grow stronger each day until they are able
to move around. They still appear wasted, but are able to walk by
themselves for short distances. Their strength will improve over
time with sustenance but the hobble to the front of the restaurant
tires them.

The third day arrives, and the team helps
the four to the vehicles parked in front. Loaded with some
supplies, Charles and Jim climb into the driver seats. Krandle
verifies that they have the correct location marked on their atlas
and, with many words of thanks, the small group of survivors drive
off.

Krandle feels a measure of satisfaction as
he watches them turn down one of the streets and disappear from
view. The entire team sees them off and their eyes linger on where
the vehicles vanished. They then gather their gear and begin the
walk back to the beach.

Krandle knows that the team’s thoughts are
on their own loved ones. As they make their way through town, he
ponders this trip. Finding these last survivors means that there is
still a faint hope of finding others…and of finding their
families…but their time to do so may be running out. However, there
is the group with Captain Walker and the hope that others have come
together and formed a wall against the darkness.

The team reaches the shore and, in silence,
pushes the rubber craft into the gently rolling surf.

Leonard waits patiently in the control room
for Chief Krandle and his team to stow their gear in the deck
locker. Waiting patiently is a matter of perspective. Having his
boat exposed above the security of the depths has him on edge.
Loitering in the area for three days added to that edge. Those
three days had him surfacing several times and he felt his blood
pressure elevate each and every time. Even though the evidence
shows that there may not be anyone or anything that can threaten
him, old habits die hard. Right now, the sub and each other are the
only things they have, and he is hesitant to put either in
danger.

He knows that what they were doing is right,
that it is their duty to see to the survivors, but it is also his
duty to look after the crew…and that includes the one thing that
can keep them alive in this new world – the
Santa Fe
. The
sub is their lifeline, and with it, they have a better chance at
surviving. One thing weighing on Leonard’s mind is that the sub
won’t last. It takes a lot to keep the old nuke attack boat going;
it’s only a matter of time before they’ll have to put ashore for
good. That time, he hopes, is a long ways off. They’ll be able to
use the depot in San Diego for parts and, if that fails, there is a
depot at Bangor.

The thought stays in his mind that he’ll
have to find a location that’s best for them. At the moment, the
best place they’ve come across is with Captain Walker and his
group, but that’s only if they don’t find anything better. There is
the danger that they’ll break down at an inopportune time and
become stranded. If that happens, the choice will be taken away
from them. The worst possibility is that they’ll become stranded in
the middle of the ocean should he endeavor beyond the western
shores and strike for Hawaii or Guam. The sub has taken them
wherever they desired on patrol without difficulty, but they
haven’t undergone their usual in-port repairs after their last
cruise. He knows the chance he’d be taking.

For now, though, they’ll continue to take
observations on the way to San Diego. That’s their base, where
their families are, and their best bet to find anyone still in
charge. Deep down, he knows they may be the only ones left. There
would have been communications if any part of the military still
operated. Captain Walker and his group would have received some
message and become a part of the rebuilding.

Perhaps that’s all we’re left with…all
that remains to rebuild. Small groups carving out a niche for
themselves in an otherwise desolate land
, Leonard thinks while
waiting on the all clear.
It could be that’s what we have to
rebuild from
.

The all clear finally comes, and the watch
descends. Leonard orders the boat to submerge. The sleek black
lethal m an-of-war sinks below the cresting swells of the Pacific
and turns toward deeper waters. Feeling more comfortable, Leonard
sends a quick thought of good will towards those who are, at this
very moment, making their way northward. It wasn’t that he didn’t
care about their well-being when talking with the chief; he had his
crew to think of and couldn’t risk an illness being brought aboard.
They just don’t have the resources at their beck and call that they
used to. He’s playing it by ear in this new situation, and if he is
too cautious, then so be it.

Checking with the comm officer, he finds
they still can’t communicate with Captain Walker and his group.
They dove one evening after giving a sit-rep and when they tried
again in the morning, there wasn’t any reply. Each time they
surface, they try to establish communication, but the airwaves
remain empty. He should have left a message with the ones they
helped, but he was anxious to get underway and the thought didn’t
occur to him. If they come into contact with another group, he’ll
rectify that and send them off with a note. Until then, observing
the coastline and getting to San Diego is his priority. He’ll base
further decisions on what he finds there. However, he has to get
them there first. At their present speed, it will take about
three-plus days. Sometime tomorrow, they should be pulling into the
approaches to San Francisco.

Northern California has the least populated
areas of any shoreline. Even though Leonard has a fair picture of
what the Western Seaboard presents with regards to survivors, he
holds to their course and speed rather than race south. Survivors
can be anywhere, and he wants to give the watch the best chance at
locating any. He senses the impatience of the crew to get to their
base, but feels that these lesser populated shores may actually be
the most likely places to find anyone.

They slowly pass the rocky shoreline without
finding any evidence of life – of any kind. Leonard feels a slight
relief at this as it would be hard to put Chief Krandle’s team
ashore with the high bluffs and seas pounding against them.

The day wears on until the sun casts a fiery
glow against the cliffs, creating diffused colors of yellows and
oranges in the spray as the waves strike the rock walls. It’s the
eternal struggle of an irresistible force against an immovable
object. Rainbows dance above the waves where the spray leaves a
mist.

The shadows in the crevices of the cliffs
deepen, and the sky darkens as the sun gives a final farewell. In
moments, with no lights on land to show the delineation of sea and
shore, the features fade and go black as if a veil has been pulled
over the land. Leonard hears the soft rustle of people moving as
one shift relieves another. He rises.

“I’ll be in my cabin. Alert me if anything
happens,” he says, leaving the control room.

The next day, the
Santa Fe
slides
between the headland leading to Chimney Rock and the Farallon
Islands, nearing the approaches to San Francisco. They enter the
perpetual fog bank that keeps a solid hold on the straits. Leonard
slows the boat to a crawl and surfaces.

“Bring us in on radar…slow and steady. Let’s
not hit anything out here in this pea soup,” he says.

On top of the tower with two others of the
watch, he feels the cold moisture gather on his exposed face.
Droplets gather and run down his cheeks. He listens for the
familiar fog horns in this area but hears nothing except the slap
of waves against the hull. Periodically, his own fog horn blows low
notes outward, rolling across the gentle swells; they are absorbed
by the thick veil of moisture. The bow is only a faint, wispy sight
in front as they draw closer to the inlet.

Radar picks up unmoving signatures of
vessels floating at anchor ahead and they maneuver between and
around the ships at rest. A few times during their approach, the
mist clears to the extent that they can see the dark shapes of
cargo vessels. The silhouettes slide past and are lost from sight
in the fog.

Slowly, the
Santa Fe
creeps into the
inlet serving the large city. Using radar to guide them, they pass
the headlands of the strait. Several other cargo ships pass slowly
by like wraiths loitering on the edge of sight. Without thinning,
the fog brightens, changing from a consistent light gray to white.
Patches of yellow mist appear overhead.

Without warning, the
Santa Fe
breaks
into the clear. The fog hangs just behind like a sheer wall.
Leonard orders a halt and orders the crew to keep the sub on
station. Hills rise steeply on the left and parts of the city can
be seen to the right. A breeze carries the tangy air associated
with ports. That isn’t what captures the attention of Leonard
however.

The large red pillars of the Golden Gate
Bridge rise high above them and make their vessel seem miniscule by
comparison. What is mesmerizing though is the large span between
the towers. The incredibly large center span angles downward on
either side from each of the tall support structures. The middle of
the span is lost beneath the cold waters of the bay. One of the two
large guides holding the suspension lines still spans the towers
with the wires hanging down, swinging gently in the light breeze.
The other guide has broken in the middles and trails loosely from
each side of the towers, the wires still attached to the broken
span.

Leonard edges the sub as close as he dares
without running into debris or snagging loose lines. He wants to
get a better look at the city and see if there is an indication
that anyone still remains.

The high rises of the downtown area slowly
emerge into view from around the guarding heights that encircle the
city and lead to the bridge. Sunlight glints off a myriad of
windows and the shape of the well-known TransAmerica Pyramid rises
above all of the rest, a testament to humankind’s engineering.