Riding The Apocalypse

by Frank Ignagni III

  I also wanted to visit Senator Riley.

  For the next fifteen minutes, the ride felt like a road trip on a trail, except Buell was riding his street bike instead of his dual sport.

  Didn’t matter to him.

  After a short and brisk ride, we hit Bear Creek road, which is paved but extremely tight in the corners. Bear Creek leads to many mountain homes, and can have fairly heavy traffic at times, so we slowed and proceeded with caution—or at least Buell’s version of caution. All quiet from my earpiece, we were lost in our own thoughts.

  As we made our way south, we encountered a few cars and motorcycles on the road, coming the opposite direction. The looks on people’s faces were not the usual smiles and waves. Many were white-knuckled drivers staring purposefully ahead. On the bright side, we didn’t get flashed headlights from other drivers, which would be a warning.

  We made it all the way to Highway 9 uneventfully, then turned left and headed south. Highway 9 opened into long sweeping turns and open roads, and we could make excellent time, as long as we stayed out of trouble.

  Monterey, here we come. We were halfway, only fifty miles from the office supply store, according to my GPS, which was still functioning well. Highway 9 is a fantastic ride, and I wanted to enjoy it, but for obvious reasons I was on the edge.

  “Hey, guys, gotta make a stop now,” Max chimed in on the mic. “Buell, pull us off here, please.’

  “Ayup!”

  I looked ahead, and the sign read Highway Nine Hole Pitch ’n’ Putt Golf Course. I bet somebody thought that was pretty cute when they came up with that name. I had been there many times with Max, Buell, and Rich over the years. Max even worked there when he was in college, he loved that place. As adults, we would go have a few beers and drive golf balls once in a while. I instantly knew why Max was stopping, and I’m sure Buell did too.

  Uncle Frank.

  There were two things you could count on around here; people traverse these roads too fast, and Uncle Frank would be working the bar, telling war stories. Uncle Frank owned the small golf course, and was somewhat of a local legend for more than making a great bloody mary. Uncle Frank was a WWII veteran. He was one of the dive bomber squadron pilots that surprised the three Japanese aircraft carriers during the Battle of Midway. Frank and his squadron caught the Japanese with their planes arming from bombs to torpedoes in between sorties. With all of the exposed weaponry on the decks and in the hangars, the carriers were highly flammable and sitting ducks. When Uncle Frank and his allies dropped their bombs and torpedoes, the live ammo not yet loaded on the Japanese planes went off in a chain reaction. It was an incredible stroke of fortune for the U.S. and a devastating loss for the Japanese and Axis Powers. In just a few short minutes, those three squadrons destroyed three of the four Japanese aircraft carriers. This turned the tide of the entire Pacific war. Of all the stories Uncle Frank tells, that is my favorite because Uncle Frank’s recollection is so vivid. Yeah, neither Buell nor I said a word when Max suggested we exit at the golf course.

  As we rode down the quarter mile road off Highway 9 toward the golf course, we saw no one. There were only a few cars in the parking lot. One SUV with the trunk open and a golf cart abutted against the rear bumper. Not a soul around. We parked our bikes outside the clubhouse, making sure to circle around so the motorcycles were facing back toward the exit. Buell was the first and we followed his lead. He knew how to get a move on; he quickly set our exit formation.

  “Let’s go check the clubhouse first, Uncle Frank’s office is behind the bar,” Max said as he dismounted in half the time it took Buell and I to. “You guys, I am sorry we had to stop—”

  “Cut the sanctimonious crap, Max, we love that old guy too,” Buell said. “Least we could do, shit, if it wasn’t for him and the rest of McCluster’s guys, we would have yen in our wallets.”

  “McClusky,” Max corrected.

  “Shit, Buell, that was close,” I said. “I am gonna give you that one, McCluster, McClusky.”

  “That should definitely be a gimme,” Buell said, proud of his reference to a golf term at a golf course.

  “You guys coming?” Max asked impatiently. He already had his helmet off, tire iron in hand, and was heading for the doors as he spoke.

  “Right behind you,” I said, as Buell and I jogged toward Max.

  There were glass double doors in front. The awning and trellis flush with vines. The doors leading into the clubhouse were both wide open but unbroken. Max led us through the doors with caution. Holding one of the handguns at my side, I flicked off the safety and pointed it down as I followed. I felt uncomfortable holding the gun, but I have to admit, it felt more empowering than a tire iron. Buell had the other gun in his hand, and he looked infinitely more relaxed than I did.

  “Safety off?” Buell whispered.

  “Aye.”

  As we entered the dimly lit clubhouse, I strained to get my eyes adjusted. The light from the open doors gave us enough to see the outlines of the clubhouse, but there were still dark pockets of space. The foyer was lined with golf club racks, a few sets of disheveled clubs littered the floor. As I peered into the clubhouse, I noticed chairs and tables scattered in the usually tidy dining room. Looked like there had been a quick mass exodus. With the furniture toppled and strewn about, the rustic clubhouse dining room had the look of a saloon after a brawl. The wood paneled walls and western style décor made for a bar scene straight out of Rio Bravo. Yeah, I looked up at the rafters just in case.

  The left side of the clubhouse was all glass, with double doors in the middle of the glass panels, allowing a full view of the first hole on the course. I stole a quick glance through the doors and saw the first tee box, and, aside from a tipped golf bag, it was empty. There was a set of clubs lying on the grass. One of the clubs was outside the bag and broken in half. I saw what looked like bloodstains on the grass. I had seen that before.

  Not good.

  Max ignored the dining area and headed straight for the bar on the right side of the clubhouse. Still nobody in sight, but as I inched closer behind Max, it hit me.

  The smell.

  I dry heaved as I took in the sour smell of feces and overwhelming body odor. I wasn’t ready for it, and drew in a full breath before I realized it. Actually, you are never ready for it. Buell shook his head and spit in reaction, but Max didn’t make a sound, or give any indication that he smelled anything. He was focused on the closed door directly behind the bar.

  Then we saw it. The twice dead monster lying just behind the right side of the bar, flat on his back. His body position told the story of his demise. His face, or what was left of it, was obviously blown off by a shotgun. The blood spatter was under our feet well before we reached him. He resembled Rodney Dangerfield in Caddyshack, plaid pants and all. His shirt was so many different colors you hardly noticed the blood spatter.

  Just then, from around the far side of the bar, I heard a moan. A brutally disfigured monster came around from the hallway on the opposite side of the bar. He looked to be over six feet, and his gray sweatshirt was almost opaque with blood. Staying with the Caddyshack theme, he was more of a Chevy Chase.

  “Max!” I yelled.

  Before I even finished the one syllable alert, Max was bringing the tire iron down atop the monster’s head, while expertly avoiding Chevy’s outstretched arms. The crack was sickening. Blood shot from the undead man’s head and open mouth simultaneously. The monster went down with a thud, face-first. As he fell to the ground, another monster was revealed directly behind him. The second assailant was a heavyset woman with long blond hair. Her skin was the first indication she was no longer living, pale as a ghost. As she stepped forward, her mouth opened wide, revealing bloodred teeth threaded with what I assumed was bits of flesh and bone. Her rasp chilled my blood. She looked down at Max, who was on one knee, trying to pull his tire iron from Chevy’s freshly cracked skull. Max looked up just in time to see her right temple explode as I fired from a few feet be
hind him. The gunshot spun her around like a top, and she landed on the beer taps to her right. Her armpit hooked on the Newcastle Ale tap, pulling it forward, and leaving her hanging there, her blood gushing into the tap overflow tray where it mingled with the flowing ale, creating a morbid version of a red beer.

  From the corner of my eye I saw a flash and quickly focused on Buell running into the hallway from where the two monsters had appeared.

  “It’s clear!” Buell yelled.

  I watched Max stand up and rip a bar towel from under the hunched woman leaning on the bar. He carefully closed the beer tap then wiped the tire iron clean and looked back at me.

  “Thanks, man, I didn’t see her back there.”

  “How could you miss her fat ass?” Buell chirped as he returned from the hallway.

  “Shit, Max, she was a foot shorter than that other one, had he not fallen I wouldn’t have seen her either,” I said, pointing the gun to the man lying on the ground with the split forehead.

  Buell crossed the room to lock the double doors in the foyer. “If we gotta leave quick it’s easy to unlock it, but it looks clear so I wanna keep it that way.”

  I nodded.

  Max stepped away from the undead carcass carefully, to avoid slipping on the blood. With the tire iron high in his hand, he turned to the door behind the bar counter. He stepped back toward me and gave a nod. I looked back at Buell, and he was still hovering in the dining area, watching the door and snapping his head back to us every few seconds. I was going to ask him to cover our backs, but he already had it under control. I gave him an approving glance and he winked and walked back toward the double glass doors to take a look outside at the tee box again.

  “Uncle Frank’s office is in here, remember?” Max said quietly.

  “Vaguely. You just lead the way and stay low, I don’t wanna shoot you,” I said nervously.

  “I don’t want to be shot, so good to know.”

  Max tapped the door lightly, just above the sign that read, When in doubt, have a man come through the door with a gun in his hand. —Raymond Chandler. I was not sure what that meant, or who Raymond Chandler was, but it did seem like Uncle Frank.

  Nothing.

  Just as he was about to knock again—

  “Can I help you?” A familiar scratchy voice emanated from behind the door. “If not, please leave, ’cause my fingers are itchy on the trigger of my M-16 and it’s pointed at the middle of the door.”

  Max’s smile was ear to ear, and it felt good to see his joy; my eyes welled slightly and I took a deep breath.

  “U.F.! It’s me, Max, open the damn door!”

  A few seconds later I heard a staccato of dead bolts unlocking and chains sliding, ending with the doorknob turning and then a slowly opening door. Uncle Frank peeked out, then motioned us inside. He looked good. He had to be pushing ninety years old, but still moved with a quick step and his gait was not far off a younger man’s.

  I followed Max into Uncle Frank’s office. I looked back to see Buell standing at the door, keeping an eye outside. From where Buell was standing, he had a good view of the front doors, as well as the sliding glass doors across from the bar. I always loved sitting at the bar and watching the golfers tee off. We used to play a drinking game. We would alternate picking golfers who were teeing off. If the golfer teeing off didn’t hit it completely out of the tee box, or missed it entirely, we had to slam whatever was left of our drinks and order another. We picked our golfers as they came up to the tee. Seemed like I always put my money on the wrong horse.

  Being in Uncle Frank’s immaculate office was like being in a WWII museum. It looked nothing like the casual western décor of the clubhouse. All along the left wall were pictures of uniformed men in flat black frames. On the shelf just below were various keepsakes from the war, not the least of which was the shiniest belt buckle I had ever seen. Opposite the portraits were pictures of various planes, and even a couple of models hanging from the ceiling. I instantly recognized the P-38J Lightning, it had the words Fork Tailed Devil painted across its wings. You would recognize it if you saw it, it was the one with the twin booms, and looked almost like two planes in one.

  “That plane is famous you know,” Frank told me. “The P-38J was the plane used to shoot down Admiral Yamamoto, the commander of the Imperial Japanese Navy.”

  “He was the mastermind behind the attack on Pearl Harbor,” Max added, finishing Uncle Frank’s thought.

  “Operation Vengeance,” added Uncle Frank, beaming a smile at Max, like a proud father at a spelling bee.

  Uncle Frank had a replica of his plane, the SBD3, on his desk under a glass cover. My admiration of the décor was broken by Uncle Frank’s scratchy voice.

  “Shit, good to see ya, Max, thought you guys would be long gone by now. Everybody hit the bricks when this end of the world stuff started.”

  “U.F., you here all alone?”

  “Yeah, when the reports started coming in of all these creatures roaming around, this place scattered like a Japanese command bunker in Guadalcanal.”

  I welcomed the WWII analogies, and smiled warmly at Uncle Frank. Damn, it was good to see the old coot.

  “Then ol’ Pete from Grass Valley came lumberin' in here from the tenth tee with blood on his face and lookin' like a damn feral animal.” Uncle Frank shook his head as he motioned to the dead man just outside the office door. “I had to unload on 'em, and then I closed the damn door,” Uncle Frank added as he tapped his shotgun sitting on his desk.

  “Where is Tiny?” Max asked.

  “He made sure everyone left and took off home.”

  Tiny was anything but. He was a part-time bull rider, and the rest of the time he was the muscle around here. He was over six feet tall, and built like a lumberjack. I remembered him fondly. Tiny was Uncle Frank’s nephew, and he kept the club members who’d had a few too many drinks and bogeys in line. I was glad to hear he was okay.

  “You know the damn doors were wide open,” Buell said from just outside the office.

  “Yeah, I heard somebody come in and leave a few minutes after Tiny left. I heard some bottles clankin' and then nothin'.”

  “Yeah, your beer cooler is open, come to think of

  it—” Buell stopped mid-sentence and leaned down behind the bar and grabbed a Sam Adams.

  “That’s six bucks,” Uncle Frank chirped. “Not happy hour for another hour,” he added.

  “Put it on my tab.”

  “There is no room!”

  We all laughed and Max went to Uncle Frank and hugged him. “I am glad you are okay, you got a way to get out of here?”

  Uncle Frank’s expression turned serious and he looked down at his desk as he answered. “There is no place to go for me, Max. I am just going to hole up here,” he said, looking around the room. “If Tiny comes back, I s'pose I will head to his mom’s place, maybe. No place else I wanna be. Look, I don’t know how much ya' fellas know, but this is some pretty dire shit going on. I got a shortwave, and made a few calls to some of my contacts in the Air Force, and this virus thing has our boys licked at the moment. It is spreadin' pretty fast, and we are not on the offensive, we are on the defensive right now.”

  I didn’t like the despondent look on his face as he filled us in. It was unnerving to see such a brave man speak pessimistically. I saw Buell walk away from the doorway toward the glass doors as Uncle Frank paused to take a drink of a brown liquid I assumed was whiskey.

  “We will catch up to this, U.F., we always do,” Max said.

  “Not in this lifetime,” Uncle Frank said with a halfhearted chuckle.

  It really hit me hard when he said that. Here was a wise, brave war hero. He was pretty much laying it on the line. We were in serious trouble. He had seen some dark times, and to him, this was the darkest. What he was saying was on our minds too, but we had this purpose, and we were gonna see it through. If this ever was going to be fixed, it was going to take some time, and most likely the older folks were never
going to see normal life again.

  Would anyone?

  “Here, take these,” Uncle Frank said, handing Max a few boxes of rounds. “Those will fit in your weapons. I got plenty of ammo and my M-16, and tons more shotgun shells. Get out while the gettin’ is good, I am gonna hole up here and wait for Tiny to come back.”

  “What if he doesn’t—”

  Uncle Frank cut Max off mid-sentence. “Look here, I am ninety-one years old, and I’ve had a nice run. I got one more battle in me at most, and this is where I want to make my stand. I promise I will go down fightin’, if necessary. Anyway, I will only slow you guys down—get the Sam hell outta here, and find yourself one of those safe harbors down south.”

  “We will send help when we can.”

  “If Tiny doesn’t come back for me, I don’t wanna be rescued. This is my hill to die on if need be,” Uncle Frank said with a smile that could charm a cobra. “I got everythin' I need right here,” he said, looking around the room. “Grab a few beers and some water out of the cooler. I got plenty. Now that you have secured the clubhouse I got more room to move about. I thank you guys for coming here, means a lot to me.”

  Max was welling up, he looked like he was fighting to hold back the tears.

  Whoop!

  I looked out the office door and caught the end of Buell’s backswing. He was out in the tee box, with an iron in hand, and a tipped-over bucket of balls on the ground next to him.

  Whoop!

  I followed the flight of the ball as I walked toward Buell, leaving Max alone with Uncle Frank. The ball flew majestically toward the green. Buell’s shot landed pin high about ten yards to the right of the hole and stopped with a light thump barely audible from this distance.