by Joe Nobody
Apocalypse Trails
Episode 2
By
Joe Nobody
Copyright © 2016
Kemah Bay Marketing, LLC
All rights reserved.
Edited by:
E. T. Ivester
www.joenobodybooks.com
This is a work of fiction. Characters and events are products of the author’s imagination, and no relationship to any living person is implied. The locations, facilities, and geographical references are set in a fictional environment.
Other Books by Joe Nobody:
Apocalypse Trails: Episode 1
Apocalypse Trails: Episode 3
Apocalypse Trails Omnibus (Episodes 1-3 in paperback)
Secession: The Storm
Secession II: The Flood
Secession III: The Surge
The Archangel Drones
Holding Your Ground: Preparing for Defense if it All Falls Apart
The TEOTWAWKI Tuxedo: Formal Survival Attire
Without Rule of Law: Advanced Skills to Help You Survive
Holding Their Own: A Story of Survival
Holding Their Own II: The Independents
Holding Their Own III: Pedestals of Ash
Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent
Holding Their Own V: The Alpha Chronicles
Holding Their Own VI: Bishop’s Song
Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star
Holding Their Own VII: The Directives
Holding Their Own IX: The Salt War
Holding Their Own X: The Toymaker
Holding Their Own XI: Hearts and Minds
Holding Their Own XII: Copperheads
The Home Schooled Shootist: Training to Fight with a Carbine
Apocalypse Drift
The Little River Otter
The Olympus Device: Book One
The Olympus Device: Book Two
The Olympus Device: Book Three
The Ebola Wall
Chapter 6
After a series of handshakes and well wishes, Jack pedaled through the base’s main gates. Not wanting to be embarrassed in front of his friends and colleagues, he’d memorized the route out of San Diego the night before. “Those guys would bust a gut laughing at me if I had to pull out a map in order to get out of the city,” he whispered to the cold morning.
The plan was simple. He would cross California via Interstate 8, heading east toward Arizona. Just south of Phoenix, his road would merge with I10, which would take him all the way to Texas.
Reaching the Lone Star State was only half the battle.
Once in Texas, Jack still had to pedal almost two hundred miles to reach his father-in-law’s ranch. Given what he remembered of the occasional holiday visits, that last stretch of terrain was going to be the hardest of all.
The commander’s logic was straightforward – using an interstate highway meant that he shouldn’t encounter any overly steep grades or elevations. Those thoroughfares had been designed with over-the-road truckers in mind, and those machines struggled to climb extremely precipitous inclines.
It would also be difficult to get lost, which worried the naval officer when he considered using side streets and alternative routes. While his academy training had included extensive hours of navigational subject matter, Jack had never practiced those skills in real life. He didn’t have a sextant, and finding the North Star was about the limit of his capabilities – and that was if the ash wasn’t too thick.
Staying to the main traffic arteries wasn’t all positive, however. The commander was fully aware that his chances of encountering people were much greater along the more-traveled paths. Truck stops, fast food stores, and the other infrastructure that had built up alongside the interstates might still house survivors. They might be hostile … or not.
Given his lack of training on a bicycle and the fact that his supplies and time were limited, Jack finally determined that staying to the highway was ultimately worth the risk.
He encountered his first obstacle after the front gate was only a few miles behind him.
Interstate 8 was a parking lot, just like the freeway he had crossed on the trek to acquire the bike. Not only were the regular lanes bumper to bumper, but the emergency shoulders were full as well.
Just as before, Jack could tell someone had been scavenging the stranded vehicles. Trunks and doors were open on many of the automobiles. “Searching for glovebox snacks was pretty smart,” the commander acknowledged.
With a deep sigh, Jack began pedaling among the seemingly endless rows of cars. At times, he could make good headway, other stretches requiring that he backtrack and switch rows. He found numerous roadblocks, most often caused by someone who had been trying to change lanes and had gotten stuck before completing the maneuver. More than once, he had to stop and push a door closed to secure passage.
And then there was the occasional body. Jack was nearly toppled from his bike when he accidently ran over a leg sticking out from underneath a pickup truck. The ash had obscured the deceased.
Keeping a steady pace was difficult, but the miles did pass. The commander kept an eye on his watch, desperate to be out of San Diego before nightfall. It would be impossible to navigate once the light faded, and the thought of setting up camp in the hostile, urban environment sent shivers down his spine.
The skyscrapers of downtown were just to his south when he spotted the first signs of survivors.
He was pumping his way up an incline, one of the dozens of overpasses and sky bridges in the heavily congested center of the metropolis.
“Hey! Hey! You on the bike! Stop!” a distant voice ordered.
Jack glanced over the edge of the elevated roadway to see three men standing along a parallel surface street. The sight of the survivors took him by surprise, so he stopped for a better view, allowing his legs a moment’s rest.
No longer distracted, the commander took a moment to study the trio, almost instantly figuring them to be homeless and seeking a handout.
They wore multiple layers of clothing that appeared mismatched and filthy. Jack noticed facial hair protruding from a mixture of masks. One man had donned a baseball cap, his hair sticking nearly straight out from under the sides.
Two of the strangers had a shopping cart filled with an assortment of items, just the unfortunate souls who often called the underneath side of highway overpasses their homes.
“What do you want?” Jack shouted back, confident and secure given their distance and lack of access to the elevated pavement.
“Do you have any food, mister?” one of the shouted back.
“No … sorry, none to spare,” Jack yelled.
The closest of the three reached into his cart and pulled a rifle. Jack, spotting the weapon, began pedaling hard.
The shot sent a jolt of reality though the commander’s core, the dribble and rattle of shotgun pellets descending on the surrounding cars. Twice Jack nearly wrecked his precious transportation, narrowly avoiding an open car door and an extended trailer hitch.
After he had pedaled hard for five minutes, Jack paused to catch his breath, peering over his shoulder to see if he were being pursued. “I hope the San Diego Visitor’s Bureau doesn’t hear about this,” he whispered to the distant skyline. “Shit like that would be terrible for tourism.”
Still, there was no sign of pursuit. Jack started traveling again after a quick drink.
He began to notice the cars. Each one tells a story, he thought. Was there a family in that minivan? Where did they go after the gas ran out? Were the kids crying?
He noticed a blue sedan, its trunk waving in the air like a flag of surrender. Someone had pulled out the suitcases from the back, dumping the co
ntents in search of something valuable. Jack pondered if the occupants had been an older couple or a young family just getting started. While he would probably never know, one thing was for certain – the highway reeked of fear and futility. Pain hung over the pavement like a dark fog. A graveyard of desperation spread out in front of him, proclaiming the demise of hope.
It was just over a mile further that the commander began to notice odd tracks in the ash. There were two, sometimes four, narrow wheel marks outlined in the grey covering. For a moment, Jack thought he might be sharing the road with other riders.
A few hundred yards further, he had to stop again, his path blocked by an accident involving an overturned SUV. “Shit,” Jack cursed, scanning right and left for a clear route.
A head poked up from a neighboring sedan, the wide eyes of a young man showing surprise at Jack’s appearance. Both men immediately reached for weapons. The naval officer was faster.
“Don’t do it,” Jack growled, his eyes zeroed on the stranger’s rusty rifle. “I’m just passing through. I don’t want any trouble.”
The scavenger paused, his eyes darting right and left as if searching for a way out. It gave the commander a moment to study the man.
He was maybe 20 years old, but with the stained handkerchief covering the lower part of his face and his long, unkempt hair, it was difficult to be sure. What struck Jack the most was how thin the fellow was.
Even with the filthy overcoat covering his arms, Cisco could tell the guy was either starving, very sick, or both. Boney, trembling fingers seemed to struggle with gripping the old bolt-action long gun, and the exposed portion of the fellow’s jawbone protruded oddly from under his mask.
Jack’s analysis was interrupted by the movement of the man’s rifle.
“Don’t do it!” Cisco snarled, tightening the carbine against his shoulder. “I will kill you.”
“Oh, please do,” the scavenger whispered, his eyes fixed on the M4’s muzzle. “Just not in the face … please.”
“What?” Jack frowned. “What are you talking about, dude?”
“Please, just pull the trigger. I… I don’t want to keep doing this… I’m so hungry, and my body aches constantly. Have mercy on my soul, sir. Will you make it quick? Promise?”
Jack had heard of suicide by cop, but had never really spent much time mulling over the concept. Now this stranger wanted to end his life? What the hell was the commander supposed to do now?
“Look, I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Cisco said with as much kindness as he could muster at the moment. “You survived…. You’re alive, dude. That has to count for something.”
“Please,” came the barely audible reply. “I don’t have the balls to do it myself. I’ve had this gun barrel in my mouth a dozen times in the past month, but I can’t do it. Please, sir. Make it quick, please.”
Shaking his head, Jack responded, “No. Absolutely not. What do you think I am? I’m not a murderer. I’m not some kind of animal.”
Setting his rifle back into his shopping cart, Jack’s nemesis pulled up the sleeve of his coat, revealing a scrawny arm, so thin in fact that the skin hung loosely without the benefit of muscle or fat underneath. A layer of sores covered the wrinkled and cracked tissue. “Look at me!” he demanded. “Just look at me!” The man then opened the front of his coat and pulled up his shirt to reveal a rack of ribs that reminded Jack of those late night television commercials that solicited contributions for starving orphans in third world countries. “Please, sir, please! I don’t want to do this anymore. There is nothing left. There never will be.”
For a moment, Jack thought about granting the fellow’s last wish. Images flooded the commander’s mind, most ultimately reminding him that he might be in exactly the same place in a few months. Was the world really that bad? How many other survivors had taken their own lives?
Yet, he couldn’t do it. Some streak of the commander’s humanity refused the concept of euthanasia. The guy might be suffering, but there was still hope. As frail and disheartened as this forager was, he had walked here. And he was searching for food to live. Surely, something deep inside this stranger had compelled him to do whatever was necessary to survive. No. Cisco couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger.
“What is your name?” Jack asked.
There was a hesitation, the question seeming to generate surprise. “Peter.”
“What did you do before the holocaust?”
“I was a musician. I played the guitar in a rock band.”
“Wife? Kids? Family?”
The fellow caught on, immediately becoming agitated at Jack’s attempt to talk him off the ledge. “Don’t even bother, mister. I’ve got nothing but pain left in this life. Everything I worked for is gone. Everyone I loved … all my family and friends are dead. What possible reason is there for me to go on alone? It’s not like I am going to end this madness or ensure the survival of our species by myself. Why suffer until I succumb to the disease that consumes my flesh? No. I need you to do this. End it. I can’t stand the agony and loneliness any longer.”
Jack wouldn’t. He couldn’t. “No. I’m not going to do that. You’re just having a bad day, partner. Things will get better,” he soothed, slightly lowering his weapon.
The scavenger became enraged. “You won’t even put a man out of his misery? It’s not like I can walk to the local ER and get some IV antibiotics while I enjoy a BLT from the hospital cafeteria. You have got to see that I am doomed to a miserable end. Why you son of a bitch!”
He lunged for the bolt-action resting in the cart, the crazed look of insanity his eyes.
Again, Jack yelled for the man to stop, but the haggard man didn’t heed. The commander waited, probably too long.
When the muzzle of the old deer rifle swung toward him, Jack pulled his weapon’s trigger once, then again. At 3600 feet per second, both shots tore into the scavenger’s chest, tearing bone and tissue before exploding out the poor man’s back. He went down immediately.
Jack rushed to his side, kicking the old 30-06 out of reach. He then looked down to see his foe smiling broadly. “Thank you,” the man croaked. “God bless your kindness.”
Then the stranger closed his eyes and died, the smile still painted across his lips.
The disconcerting sight prompted a surge in Jack’s already firing neurons, his mind careening from the information dump, his thoughts circling rapidly in an attempt to understand what had just happened.
Disgusted, his stomach churning, Jack headed back to the bike and mounted the machine. His legs were weak and wobbly, his lungs having trouble pulling in enough air. “You asshole!” he snarled at the dead body. “Why did you make me kill you? Fuck you! Just fuck you! Now I have to live with this shit? Now I have to wake up in the middle of the night with your scrawny ass haunting me forever?”
For five minutes, Jack just stared at the body lying in the road. Killing the Eagles had been different. There was some instinctive normality in standing upright and doing battle. The species had been doing it for tens of thousands of years. War was hell, but that had all seemed digestible in some sick way. Jack thought about how deliberate he had been in his life, courting Miley for years before deciding she was the one, considering his professional options and structuring a career path … and yet here was a stranger who entered his life for a mere 5 minutes and had left an indelible imprint on his soul.
Jack inhaled deeply and shook his head to clear the mental image of the death scene. He swung his leg over the metal frame and started cycling again, suddenly finding the carcass and its shopping cart nauseating. He was desperate to get away, never to think about this day again. The bike’s pedals meant freedom. Distance was his friend.
On the other side of the accident, the road cleared. Obviously, the overturned SUV had been the primary catalyst of the traffic jam on Interstate 8, the number of relic cars thinning immediately after Jack managed to navigate around the wreckage.
He began to make serious time
, the pavement mostly level and nearly void of obstacles.
Despite the wide-open spaces, Jack found himself scanning the area ahead with far more diligence. He’d not been paying attention before, and his carelessness almost had gotten him killed.
West he rode, the miles passing quickly. After 90 minutes, he stopped and replenished his liquids. Another half hour passed before he again dismounted and relieved himself on the back wheel of an 18-wheeler.
It was 2 PM in the afternoon when his stomach finally rediscovered hunger. “You’ve been burning the calories,” he noted. “You’ll be fit and trim by the time you reach the Lone Star State.”
He decided to heat and eat one of his precious MREs. The San Diego metropolitan area was beginning to thin out as evidenced by fewer high rises and more trees, but the population was still far too dense to go off the road and begin searching for food. The commander knew such ventures were in his future, but not yet. Not in a big city. Not where there was a good chance he’d run into unreceptive individuals who might be better shots than the attackers on the road.
Again, Jack chose a semi for his handiwork, using the trailer to partially obscure the flame of the small camping stove he used to heat his meal. The truck had stopped on an overpass, which the commander determined was a good tactical position should he attract the attention of anyone in the area.
While his lunch was warming, Jack kept his head on a swivel, scanning the surroundings with a slow, but steady gaze.
Forty minutes later, he was seated on the bike, pedaling west with a full stomach and a renewed outlook. He was soon completely out of San Diego, now looking at the foothills leading to the Cuyamaca Mountains. While he was happy to be out of the metropolitan area, the anticipation of having to work harder in order to climb into the higher elevations put a damper on his mood.
“I think I’ll find someplace to hole up and give my body a break,” he whispered. “Those mountains up ahead might be best tackled with fresh legs and a clearer head.”
Pulling a muscle wouldn’t be good for his long-term survival. Having to lay up for days or perhaps weeks while he healed might result in a death sentence, either from dehydration, starvation, or the locals who were interested in his meager possessions.
