Apocalypse Trails: Episode 2
Page 6
Shaking his head to erase the depressing train of thought, the commander then eyed the route ahead. It was uphill, as far as he could see. “Don’t want to get stuck out here after dark,” he noted. “Besides, it will all be downhill on the way back. Well, that is … if I make it back.…”
Fed and watered, Jack climbed back onto the saddle and began pedaling again.
Two crests later, the town of Pinemont appeared in the distance, its hazy outline of buildings barely discernible here and there. Jack also noted the increasing number of homes that now bordered the road. He could read a sign for a gas station ahead, other commercial buildings peeking through the volcanic fog.
The density of homes flanking the highway began to increase rapidly as the commander reached flatter ground. The agony he was feeling in his legs was replaced by the fear of entering a new, strange, and potentially dangerous environment.
Jack stopped before entering the community, wanting to think through his approach. Studying the small map Archie had provided, he listened intently for the evidence of other people.
Naturally, the hardware store in question was on the far side of the settlement. Nothing was ever easy in these apocalyptic times. That meant passing through almost a mile of populated area, rolling through the town square, and no doubt announcing his arrival to anyone who happened to be around.
There were side streets, but not many. Like most small villages, people had built neighborhoods close to the main drag along a small network of city streets that had names like Elm, Walnut, Pine, and Oak.
Before leaving the ranch, Jack had considered navigating along these secondary routes. It was a decision he couldn’t make without first seeing the lay of the land. Now he was here. Now he had to make that call.
Other than a few cars parked alongside Main Street, the commander didn’t detect any obstacles blocking his straight shot through to the other side of town. “Will they even recognize me as a stranger if I stick to the fastest route?” he wondered. “Are there enough people left alive that they all know each other? With everyone wearing masks, could anyone even tell who was riding by?”
Jack couldn’t hear anything but a slight breeze whistling through the dead trees that lined the street. There were no voices, no shouts of children playing, no running motors. “Maybe no one is still alive here,” he reasoned. “Perhaps I’m being paranoid for no good reason.”
Resetting his foot on the pedal, Cisco made his decision. He’d blast straight through town, rolling as fast as his weary legs could produce speed. “I don’t want no trouble, Sheriff,” he said in his best western outlaw imitation. “I’m just passing through.”
As his bike began to increase speed, a wave of confidence washed over the commander. “At least I’ll be a moving target,” he mumbled. “According to Hollywood, moving targets are always harder to hit.”
As he entered the main part of the settlement, he was riding so fast that the air-grit began to sting his face. “Googles!” he hissed, slitting his eyes to keep as much of the ash out as possible. “I need to find some goggles!”
The bike seemed like it was making a horrible racket as he darted across the central square, Jack sure that every living soul for a mile in any direction could hear the crunch of the ash beneath his tires and heavy breathing through his mask.
Then he was through the heart of the berg, rolling along at a good clip and beginning to feel silly over his neurotic fear of other men.
A sign ahead broadcasted the location of the hardware store that had brought him all this way. Archie had claimed it was a massive retail outlet, catering to farmers, ranchers, and suburban homeowners alike.
“They have everything from tractor parts to watering tanks,” Mr. Bell had bragged. “I bought all of my fence wire there as well as my pumps. It’s a unique establishment, and if Bisbee’s doesn’t have what you’re needing, then they probably don’t make it.”
Jack had his doubts about that, but few other options were available to him. Besides, there was a higher purpose in constructing Archie’s water wheel. He couldn’t help but arrive at the conclusion that keeping the rancher’s modest greenhouse alive and thriving might be one of the keys to mankind’s surviving as a species. He could only hope that hundreds, if not thousands of people were out there trying to tend their own little patches of seedlings and sprouts.
Rolling into the huge parking lot, Jack’s upbeat attitude took a big hit. Bisbee’s Hardware had been looted, looking more like the victim of an aerial bombing campaign than a thriving place of business that was known far and wide.
Junk and debris were scattered throughout the parking lot. It looked like people had started to drag items from the store and then changed their minds once outside. Every window was shattered, one of the heavy, glass front doors hanging cockeyed by a single hinge.
Someone had overturned the ice machine, the freezer’s two accompanying soft drink dispensers barely recognizable, their naked aluminum frames and internal slots clearly visible and covered with dust. Jack spotted pipefittings, scraps of lumber, a display for work gloves, and two busted pallets scattered around the front door. He could only imagine the riot inside.
Dodging the miscellaneous mounds of junk in the parking lot, he pushed his bike to the back where his crimes wouldn’t be on such public display.
Fully expecting to locate a locked, thick fire door, or perhaps even a loading dock, the commander’s heart sank as he took mental inventory of the ruins.
There had been, at one time, a set of heavy steel doors across the back. Jack had no idea where they might be now. Not only was the alley strewn with as much junk as the front of the store, but there were also bags of garbage and two-panel van delivery trucks. Both vehicles had their hoods raised. Both were missing their batteries.
Leaning his cycle against the back of the building, Jack took out his bike lock and secured the 2-wheeler’s frame to a stout-looking, gas pipe emerging from the ground. He then moved toward the doublewide loading doors with his carbine high and sweeping.
He entered a storage area completely trashed with cardboard boxes and their former contents. The looters hadn’t been content with ransacking the store proper. Someone had pulled every single box and crate from the high metal shelves and pillaged the inventory. Jack spotted rakes, garden hoses, Christmas decorations, ceramic gnomes, and just about everything else needed to furnish a home or maintain a yard scattered around.
“You can’t eat garden hoses,” he whispered, climbing over a pile of the green tubes.
He found a short hall to the main showroom, entering through an open door that was marked, “Employees Only” on the public-facing side. If the stockroom was a disaster, the retail area was a war zone.
Shelves and racks had been turned on their sides, the discarded contents lying in random heaps and piles. “Why?” he whispered, surveying the destruction. “Why expend all this energy? If you need to loot to survive, then fine – come in and take what you need. Why destroy everything?” he grumbled.
Fortunately for the commander, the rampaging masses hadn’t thought to demolish the blue signs hanging in neat rows from the ceiling. In the dim light, Jack began reading the contents of each aisle, searching for the parts he desperately needed.
He soon discovered that “Connectors and Hardware” had been displayed on row #37. Again, luck was with him, most of the shelves still upright in that section of the store.
Jack had to climb, circumvent, and plot his route to reach what appeared to be a large area of rods, nuts, nails, screws, and picture-hanging hardware. He began sorting through the clutter for the ½-inch bolts and washers needed to mount the alternators and their belts.
With twice the number he thought he needed, the commander then checked for any sort of metal brackets that might be left. Having been a loyalty card customer, Archie had suggested the lawnmower section. “They have all kinds of mounting hardware for various attachments and auxiliary items,” he recommended.
J
ack, however, didn’t have to venture that far. On the bottom of a huge, overturned display case, he spied what appeared to be the perfect pieces to implement his design. It took the commander 20 minutes to locate the needed tools, and with the right-sized socket in hand, he was soon disassembling one of the store’s massive shelves.
That part of his plan executed, he stepped to a back corner where the long sections of pipe were resting upright in racks against an outer wall. Selecting two lengthy sections of the galvanized iron product, Jack worked his way back toward his bike.
Feeling relieved that he had located all of the critical items on his list, Jack continued his shopping along the way, keeping an eye out for anything that might make his project even more efficient. Two cans of PVC cement were soon added to his loot, as well as a fresh saw blade to replace Archie’s rusted hack.
“Thank you for shopping at Bisbee’s,” he whispered, navigating his way through the untidy aisle on his route to the back of the store. “And if you enjoyed your shopping experience, please don’t forget to leave us a 5-star review online.”
Now, he only had to figure out how to secure his stolen goods to the bike and skedaddle out of town.
Clambering over the last hurdle of pallets in the back, Jack emerged into the daylight, his hands full of carbine and pipe.
He sensed rather than observed the object hurling at him from behind, trying to pivot far, far too late. The man bounding from the low roof smacked Jack square in the shoulders, both of them tumbling to the ground in a rolling heap of thrashing limbs and audible curses.
The commander’s carbine was jarred free from his hand, as was the pipe. Stunned, and with the air knocked out of his chest, it was all Cisco could do to scramble away from whoever had jumped him.
The bushwhacker also was trying to regroup, evidently misjudging the impact of his leap. Still, he had surprise on his side.
Jack pulled himself up using the door handle of a van, turning just in time to spot an arm wielding a long machete arching through the air. He ducked as the razor sharp edge whizzed just above his head and slammed into the delivery truck’s sheet metal.
The missed swing threw the attacker off balance just long enough for Jack to skirt away. He grappled for his rifle … a club … anything to prevent the thug’s steel from slicing his flesh.
With a growl, the ambusher charged again, hoisting his weapon for another slash. Jack backed up, his eyes darting across the ground in a desperate search for his weapon. “Stop!” he barked at the maniac with the blade. “What are you doing?”
Jack nearly fell when his heel landed on one of the pipes. In a flash, he squatted and snatched up the length just as his antagonist stepped in with a vicious downward stroke.
The machete clanged against the pipe, the metal connecting just inches from Jack’s head. The Navy man found himself eye to eye with his attacker, instantly recognizing his assailant’s deranged gaze as an expression of a crazed lunatic consumed by hate.
The commander wasn’t any wallflower. While he’d graduated from Annapolis with honors in engineering, that didn’t mean he hadn’t received training in how to mix it up.
Cisco’s boot hacked at his foe’s knee, striking with the ferocious strength of a man fighting for his life. A howl of pain rose from the knife wielder's throat as his leg gave way. The pipe in Jack’s hands then morphed into a club.
Jack’s senses now on high alert, he was acutely aware that the outcome of the next few moments would determine his ultimate fate. Every corpuscle in his body was suddenly allocated to simple survival. His adrenaline surged, and his heart shifted into high gear, every artery in his system responding. His muscles swelled with life-giving blood and the power that comes from an overwhelming need to persevere. A compelling sense of power silenced his body’s cry from the pain. As the neurons in his brain responded to the glucose dump, visions of Miley and the girls flashed through his mind. Failure was not an option.
The first swing cracked into the arm brandishing the lengthy blade, eliciting an even more intense shriek of agony from the ambusher. Jack’s next stroke cut that short as the business end of his iron crashed into the fellow’s temple with enough force to break a man’s neck.
The commander didn’t even wait to watch his attacker fall, hustling the few steps to lift his rifle and flip off the safety. He scanned the roof, then both ends of the alley, searching for anyone else who might be feeling frisky.
Only after his initial assessment detected no other threat did it dawn on Jack that he hadn’t breathed since the melee had started. Coming off the adrenaline rush, his chest burned for oxygen. He struggled to quiet his mind, and his muscles throbbed with the waking awareness of his injuries.
Now battling to regain control of his body, his eyes darted up and down, right and left in anticipation of another attack. Glaring at the dead man at his feet, Jack quipped, “So you were a lone wolf, eh? How long before somebody comes looking for you? After all, wild animals frequently travel in packs.”
Recognizing the threat might renew itself any second, Jack inhaled deeply and steadied himself to stand. He had to get back to his bicycle. In great haste, he gathered his belongings and began strapping them to the frame and packs.
“Time to get the hell out of Dodge,” he hissed, hustling to back the heavily loaded two-wheeler to face the direction he’d come. After what seemed like an eternity, Jack was once again in the seat and pedaling hard.
“If they spotted me coming in, they might be laying in wait or tracking me,” he whispered. “I’ll have a better chance if I stay off the beaten path. I’ll take the scenic route out, check out the side streets.”
Turning off the main drag, Jack adopted the fighter pilot’s creed – speed is life. Gone was the fatigue in his legs, the bike’s pedals a whirl as he flew through a residential section of older homes.
Three blocks later, a scream pierced the air.
It wasn’t a warning, or shouted instructions, but a genuine, “I’m being chased by an axe murder,” call of terror. Jack spied her tearing through the next intersection, her legs pumping nearly as fast as his pedals, long golden hair swirling in the wind and looking over her shoulder like the devil himself was on her heels.
Slowing his mad dash, a million thoughts zipped through the commander’s head. Did her sudden appearance have anything to do with him? Who was chasing her? Why? Why now?
She disappeared into a driveway between two ash-covered cars.
Some thread of chivalry rose in the officer’s core, some instinctual male calling to help a desperate female. He slowed the bike, then stopped, staring in the direction where she’d vanished.
He was just turning to look from where she’d come when the bullet slammed into his chest, the impact to his armor plating instigating a vibrating ring of pain around the commander’s ribs and nearly knocking him from the bike’s seat.
Jack heard another shot ring out and then another.
He let the bike fall, flinging himself into the two-inch covering of pumice on the street. A second after hitting the pavement, he was scrambling to hide behind his pack.
Another wad of hot lead slammed into the street, striking directly in front of Jack’s face. He could hear the bullet whizzing off in an angry ricochet.
Cisco couldn’t see the shooters, but calculated the general direction from where the shots originated. He nestled closer to his pack and the protective plates within, searching desperately for any target.
Two shadows darted across the field of Jack’s peripheral vision, the commander snapping around his head in time to spot a pair of human forms crossing the street to maneuver behind him. They disappeared before he could bring his weapon into play.
With the panic of a trapped animal welling up in his chest, Jack began searching for a way out. He couldn’t leave the bike and had a growing certainty that he’d ridden right into the midst of a hornet’s nest.
The ash next to his head erupted in a geyser of powder as a shot whiz
zed from behind. He spun and rolled in the same movement, his rifle coming up between his legs.
A head of blonde hair popped into his optics field of view; the woman he’d observed running across the road in terror was now shooting at him with a handgun. “So you were bait. Bitch!” Jack pulled the trigger.
His shots sent her scurrying for one of the driveway’s cars. Jack twisted and released two more shots in the direction where he’d noted the shadows a moment before.
“I have got to get the fuck out of here!” he barked in a low tone. “Come on, Cisco.… Go! Go! Go!”
Pulling the bike up as he rose, Jack fired with one hand in the blonde’s general direction, and then loosed three shots where his best guess placed the original bushwhackers. He began pushing the bike with his free hand, taking two big steps and then bounding for the seat.
Unsure what the former world record was for a 0 to 60 time on a bike, Jack was pretty sure he was going to beat the previous benchmark. His boots were a blur, and he poured every ounce of the strength into making his two wheels spin as fast as possible.
A cry of pain interrupted his grand exit, compelling him to glance back at the driveway where the woman had disappeared. He spotted her withering in pain near one of the relics, red-soaked hands clutching her thigh.
Damn it, he thought. You just shot a woman, dipshit. Is that what the world has come to?
Realizing their prey was mounting an escape, the locals began firing in earnest, several rounds striking Jack’s pack that was still strapped above the rear fender. “Thank God for your advice, Chief Daniels. I owe you a beer,” Jack snipped as he gained speed.
Soon, he heard more shouting and shooting from behind him, the concussion of streaking lead singing past Jack’s head and shoulders. “You’re not going to make it,” he barked, trying to zig and zag without losing too much speed.