by David Craig
He couldn't count on his GPS functioning much longer, of course, but he'd downloaded and printed out Google maps and satellite pictures of his planned route and alternate routes. He had to pull the handmade book of maps in plastic page protectors from the glove compartment several times when he was forced to plan B and later to plan C as even the small side roads near towns filled up with refugees and stalled cars.
Using only his parking lights, partially covered with duct tape, Beacon drove all night and through the next day without sleep. The hundred gallon auxiliary gas tank installed behind the cab in the pickup's bed enabled him to avoid gas stations which had been swamped with desperate refugees as soon as the exodus from the cities had begun and were soon out of gas in any case.
Driving nonstop kept him ahead of the spreading tsunami of refugees pouring from the cities despite the slow going forced on him by the poor conditions of the dirt roads. He'd left the paved roads for good after a man offered him one hundred dollars for a gallon of gas. Beacon had opted for trade goods instead; a high end self-winding diamond encrusted gold watch powered by the natural motions of the wearer's body.
Late the on second afternoon of the second day Beacon was hurrying to a spot off the dirt road he'd long ago decided would be a safe place to sleep.
The Rich Guys Survival Club
Then he noticed the tire tracks of many vehicles turning onto the dirt road he was on. From the large tread marks he guessed they were 4X4 off-road vehicles which meant the occupants were probably better prepared (and possibly better armed) than most of the sheeple about to discover the joys of third world living.
Wanting nothing to do with them Beacon followed carefully hoping they weren't planning on using the same roads and trails he intended to travel but knowing neither he nor they had much choice in this rough country.
Turning a corner around a hill just before sunset he saw they'd turned off the dirt road onto the dirt track leading to his first planed hunker down spot.
Two of the vehicles blocked the entrance to the primitive campground he'd reconnoitered years ago. Obviously Beacon hadn't been the only one scouting bug out routes and camping locations.
Beacon stopped. He could see figures with long guns standing atop large plastic boxes the size of steamer trunks in the back of one of the 4X4 pickups. The other had a camo painted camper shell. Being on the higher than normal beds of the pickups with oversized tires the boxes gave the figures an unobstructed view of the surroundings and they were looking at him through binoculars. Detouring around them would involve significant backtracking and add days to his journey, but he was unsure whether they'd let him pass or try to rob him.
One of the men on the pickups was talking into what appeared to be a walkie-talkie. Beacon didn't like the odds and put his pickup into reverse. Just as he'd backed to a turnaround point a figure on a dirt bike inched around the roadblock and approached him its rider holding one empty hand high to show peaceful intent. Beacon unsnapped the retaining strap on the holster of the forty-five on his hip and waited.
It was a girl about seventeen dressed from head to toe in MultiCam camouflage and armed to the teeth with double shoulder holsters containing a Glock 9mm semi-auto on each side and a 12 gauge Remington 870 with Choate folding stock shotgun with extended magazine in a scabbard attached to the rear of the dirt bike. She had a Cold Steel Tanto knife sticking out of the boot that he could see and he wouldn't have been surprised if she'd had a tomahawk sticking out of the other boot.
Beacon kept both hands on his steering wheel to show his good intentions as she pulled along side.
"Nice hat!" she said with a big friendly smile looking at his MultiCam camo pattern boonie hat. Unlike most dirt bikes that roared like a chain saw, hers had a huge muffler on the side of the rear wheel opposite the Remington 870 that all but silenced the noise of her engine.
"Thanks, I got it at a surplus store, looks like it's a popular pattern," he added nodding towards her MultiCam cammies.
"I wouldn't have come down here if you'd been wearing any other pattern; we thought you might be one of ours who got out late."
"Sorry, it's just me. No offense, but I've already got a destination in mind."
"None taken, where ya' headed?" she asked.
"Got a cabin up north," Beacon didn't want to be too specific about his destination.
"No problemo amigo, Keith and the boys are just here to make sure we don't get any uninvited guests at our barbecue. Doc Savage would'a plugged ya' with his elephant gun if we thought you were a bandito." She said nodding towards the hill to Beacon's right.
"Looks like you folks are prepared."
"Yup, loaded for bear, my folks spent years getting ready for this. Now the unit gets to play with all our toys for real." She seemed happy about it.
"There's another pull-off with room to camp about a quarter mile up the road, I'll camp there and if I see any bears or banditos coming your way I'll give a coyote howl."
"Hey thanks, mister! I'll tell Doc. You can go ahead and pass now if you want." She grabbed the walkie-talkie microphone clipped to her collar and keyed the mike; "Rich Bitch to Adonis, the guy in the pretty sombrero is good to go" then she circled the MultiCam pattern painted dirt bike around his truck to lead him up the road. Beacon assumed she was referring to his MultiCam camo pattern boonie hat as he followed her as far as the MultiCam vehicles, stealing a look at the two trucks as he passed.
Both were late model 4X4's that had lots of aftermarket off-road modifications. Both were professionally painted in the MultiCam camo pattern. What would have been the chrome trim on both trucks was flat black just like on Beacon's pickup, but their bumpers were professionally done while his chrome had been painted with a spray can in his driveway. A few days ago their vehicles would have drawn stares in the city while his dark gray truck with tan over brown camper shell would have gone unnoticed.
Everyone around the trucks wore the same MultiCam pattern camo and carried an expensive black rifle or shotgun with large magazine and they all had at least one pistol. Beacon half expected to see "Doctors, Dentists, Lawyers and Bankers Survival Group LLC" or at least DDL&BSG LLC hand painted around a professionally designed logo on the doors of the group he decided to think of as the Rich Guys Survival Club for short.
He had to get some sleep or risk running into complicated problems while in a fatigued condition. He'd be too easily spotted parked while sleeping in the daylight. He had to get some sleep tonight. These people were obviously better prepared equipment wise at least, than he was. Beacon doubted he was in any danger from them. So he looked for his markers to the pre-selected backup hunker down spot. The trail to it had been easier to find in full daylight a year ago.
As the last of the day's light faded from the sky he parked next to a small tree surrounded by bushes with the vehicle pointing downhill toward the now invisible dirt road, Beacon grabbed the iron sighted M1A rifle, main bug out bag and two plastic pint bottles of water before locking up the truck with the push of a button on his remote. If anyone messed with it the alarm would wake him. Stars were twinkling in the darkening clear night sky; there'd be no rain tonight.
Walking 20 yards upslope he deposited the BOB on a small flat shelf surrounded by bushes. He had to use an LED flashlight in the red light mode to return to the truck for a can of peaches and one of Vienna sausage as well as the OD surplus sleeping bag he always carried in the back of the truck. There was no use unpacking the three part camo sleeping bag from his main BOB when he had this backup/trade bag so close at hand.
Sometime during the night all broadcasts from Asia ceased, several European governments fell and worldwide GPS died.
At dawn Beacon did a visual recon of the area before going back to the truck. Unlocking the truck he threw the OD sleeping bag and two irreplaceable empty plastic bottles in the back.
The now ubiquitous and soon to be rare plastic bottles represented the end of an era. The long supply chains, electricity and factories t
hat made paper, pens and pencils; plastic bottles, barrels and boxes; steel for knives, rifles and pistols were closing down as their personnel fled for their lives. Beacon knew it would be a generation or two, maybe never, before the factories reopened most likely as mere ghosts of their former selves. Beacon planned to use the bottles as canteens and for trade.
Beacon grabbed a can of pears for breakfast and headed back up to the shelf. He ate it sitting on his primary BOB while scanning the hillsides then went back down and began applying a camo pattern to his truck.
Irregularly shaped blobs of black and brown were applied to each corner of the tan camper shell as well as the top leading edge of the windshield. The corners of the front of the engine compartment over the headlights got the same treatment. Then he painted very lightly over the headlights but carefully avoiding the parking lights.
When looking for signs of humans people tended to look for straight lines, circles, rectangles and squares. By putting blobs on the corners and straight lines of his truck Beacon removed a key recognition parameter from the puzzle.
When he was through a few twisted dark brown painted on branches adorned the sides, front and back of the vehicle at random angles bending around corners and paying no attention to the stylish structural lines so carefully designed into the truck and camper shell. The results were not nearly as neat as the camo on the trucks he'd just passed, but the larger blotches and fading edges of his patterns helped his truck blend in at distances just like their professionally painted vehicles.
Camouflage, he reflected, is the art of blending into the background; not being cool. He put stripes and blobs of gray and tan across his tires and hubs to erase the black doughnut shape people subconsciously looked for when looking for vehicles.
Beacon locked the BOB in the cab before walking back up to the lookout point to visually recon the dirt road he was about to travel on the next leg of his journey.
Something was stirring. Pulling the binoculars from the pocket of his tactical vest he counted 20 outlaw bikers coming down from the north. With the binoculars he could see all had gas cans of one size or another strapped onto their hogs. They were wearing their colors and weren't bothering to conceal their guns.
Beacon turned and gave three coyote howls down the road in the direction of the Rich Guys Survival Club then repeated the performance twice more before he heard an answering howl from down the road.
Beacon knew the secret of survival was not winning fights, but avoiding them. If the outlaw bikers wanted peaceful passage he was sure the Doctors, Dentists, Lawyers and Bankers Survival Group would want to avoid a confrontation and, as a practical matter, the ragtag ruffians probably had nothing the well prepared Doctors, Dentists, Lawyers and Bankers Survival Group would want.
Moving slowly Beacon inched all the way behind the bush. He was about a third of the way down the slope so there was no danger of anyone spotting his silhouette against the skyline, but he wasn't taking any chances. The bush broke up his outline and his long-sleeved brown shirt, tan tactical vest, dark tan pants and MultiCam camo boonie hat blended in with his surroundings.
The bikers were moving slowly raising very little dust, but they couldn't hide the roar of their hogs as they rounded the bend in front of him. Keeping his head down so the brim of his boonie shadowed his face Beacon watched them through the bush as they rumbled past.
The danger was almost over when three stragglers hove into view. As they passed the turnoff one noticed Bacon's tire tracks. They pulled out weapons and roared up the hill toward Beacon's camp.
Traveling in an almost straight line Beacon had the advantage racing 20 yards back down the hill while the motorcycles had to follow the winding trail up to his camp. The race ended in a tie.
Seeing Beacon's truck the bikers let out a yell and accelerated planning to use the element of surprise to their advantage. Beacon decided to employ the Sergeant York strategy.
Taking a deep breath he aimed at the chest of the last motorcyclist on the trail and squeezed off a shot from his M1A rifle. The .308 caliber bullet knocked the man and his weapon over backwards off the hog.
Without waiting to see what happened to his target he set his sights on the middle biker in line firing off a quick shot as the man raised a sawed off double barreled shotgun. The motorcyclist went one way the motorcycle another.
The leader of the pack, armed with a MAC-10 and seemed to have forgotten to cock the weapon before beginning his charge. Unaware that he'd lost his following he seemed intent on running Beacon down. Beacon blew his head off and jumped to the side as the headless biker roared by.
Hoping the roar of the outlaw bikes had covered the sound of his shots, Beacon ran back up to his lookout spot. The rest of the gang was at the base of the next hill charging into what they obviously thought would be an easy victory over the two off road vehicles at the head of the side trail.
If they'd done a proper reconnaissance they'd have realized there were more vehicles filled with well armed enthusiasts spoiling for a fight behind the two vehicles they could see. But like the three bikers Beacon had just killed they mistook the element of surprise for a plan.
But six of the rearmost bikers had heard Beacon's shots and were turning their hogs around on the dirt road. The range was about 400 yards and closing. Beacon went prone on the edge of the lookout shelf and set his sights.
He didn't use the Sergeant York strategy this time as his objective was not to eliminate all attackers but to discourage them from attacking. Like the battle he'd just fought, he had to win this fight to survive and he knew he couldn't expect to come out of every battle unscathed. Any victory won without endangering himself increased his chances of long term survival. Beacon aimed to take out as many of his attackers as possible before they reached the turnoff to his camp. If he couldn't drive them off he'd kill them off.
Taking careful aim and leading his target Beacon took out the group's leader as he raced up the road. After the two others behind him had fallen the remaining three turned tail and raced back down the trail. They drove into the firestorm that was THE Rich Guys Survival Club.
The sound of gunfire from the direction of the off-roader's camp told him that battle wasn't over yet. Beacon held his post and waited. A few minutes later as the sound of shots fizzled out a lone biker came around the bend going hell bent for leather. Beacon dropped him at a hundred yards.
When he was sure no more were coming back Beacon policed up a .30 caliber M-2 Carbine with six thirty round magazines, the sawed off 12 gauge double barreled shotgun with a box of shells plus the .45 caliber MAC-10 and five fully loaded magazines from the three marauders that had tried to invade his camp. The bodies also yielded two switchblades, a cheap Bowie knife, two .357 magnum revolvers and a 40mm Glock semi-auto pistol.
After one last survey of the dirt road from his lookout point Beacon left the weapons of the other outlaw bikers he'd killed down on the road for the Rich Guys Survival Club to police up. No doubt they'd use them or trade'em just as he planned to do with the weapons from the headless biker and his companions.
Hurrying, Beacon resumed his journey. He had nothing against the rich guys, but didn't want to be part of their group which was what would happen if he traveled any great distance with them.
An hour later he topped a rise on a curve and was confronted by a convoy of three vehicles coming up the other side. They were as surprised as he was. Assessing the situation Beacon put his truck in reverse and backed up about 50 yards to a point where he could back off the road and turn around if need be.
No cars showed up at the top of the hill. They'd stopped, turned around or deployed skirmishers. Beacon didn't want to be in the truck if the latter was the case. He got out and went up the hill a little ways hoping to observe the group.
Someone from the convoy with a long gun held at port arms was walking up to the crest of the hill to see where he'd gone. A middle aged woman hurried up scolding him saying "Rick put down that gun."
He put the gun under his arm as she began calling out to Beacon. After scanning the hillside for flankers Beacon moved up within talking distance and stepped from behind a big bush, but stayed off the road.
