Avalon: The Retreat

by Rusin, L. Michael

  Mike took out several generous chunks of pemmican, a paste of dried and pounded meat mixed with melted fat and other ingredients, and each person helped themselves. With the timing of current events dinner was out of the question, so the pemmican would have to do. They knew they would have a chance to eat at the hideout but that thought didn’t stop their stomachs from rumbling.

  The pemmican was a little difficult to swallow but extremely nourishing and loaded with protein. One of the group members made it earlier in the year with a one-to-one weight ratio of dried venison and suet and 5 percent dried blackberries to take the edge off the taste of the tallow. The secret was to ensure the animal was grass-fed and the meat was never cooked above 120 degrees. Missing either of those critical points destroyed the nutritional value. Early settlers and explorers had proven they could live on it for months at a time with no ill effects.

  With a swig from their canteens, the pemmican went down easily enough and even though it wasn’t quite delectable, it filled their stomachs and their need for energy.

  Chapter 3 Sanctuary

  Mike made another GPS reading and told the group they would be heading north and east from their current position. This particular route to the retreat was not the everyday path most of them took. It was longer and more complex, but it was the safest means of travel and it kept the group out and away from watchful eyes.

  They had all traveled this route before, but it had been quite some time, and today, after what they had seen, taking the normal route would have been a mistake.

  Mike took the lead, and the others fell in line single file and remained separated from each other by at least a couple of hundred feet. It was the most secure plan available considering the circumstances, and their reaction time in an emergency could be crucial to their survival.

  The group made a calculated decision to choose bikes as opposed to other means of transport. The motorcycles were noisy and could be heard coming from a long way off, so all element of surprise was lost. However, the one persuasive argument to using them was their speed. Dirt bikes could climb, dodge, and carry a heavy load in addition to the rider’s body weight. In general, the bikes could get riders where they needed to go and get them there quickly.

  In a quarter of an hour, after they left the small valley in which they had been traveling, the group came to another stretch near the state highway, where they took a welcomed break. Well before they reached the crest where they could see the crowd below, they heard loud voices in the distance.

  Many cars were stopped in the road, gridlocked, and hundreds of people were milling around the massive traffic jam that trapped them. Horns honked, people yelled, children chased one another as they played, and several arguments were well underway.

  A man and his family had apparently broken down and instead of making an effort to move onto the shoulder, he had just stopped in the middle of the roadway. Someone else left the road to pass and was stuck fast on the high shoulder, which caused other vehicles to pile up. Another car was mired in the soft dirt on the opposite shoulder and that made getting past impossible, and on and on it went. It was stupidity in action on a grand scale and anger was escalating as tempers flared!

  One person yelled at another, and suddenly one man’s dog jumped out of the family car, ran over, and bit the other guy on the leg. A handgun came out and with a flash and loud pop, the dog was dead. The dog’s owner, horrified by this incredible cruelty, jumped the man and so did the dog owner’s wife. A few seconds later, they both were shot and lay dead in the road with their dog.

  Most of the crowd stood there and watched as the shooter pointed his handgun ominously at them, walked over to his 4x4 pickup, slid into the driver’s side, started the engine, and in one swift movement, shifted and floored it with a roar. The oversized truck rammed cars out of the way and eventually made a hole through the traffic. But as the driver moved around the cars blocking the highway, he too was stopped. The truck was stuck in place when he high-ended it in the dirt, merely tilting it back and forth because the vehicle had no traction.

  That’s when the crowd moved in.

  Some had guns in their hands and the driver of the 4x4 was dead in a handful of seconds. Bullets flew at him from seemingly every direction, and when it was obvious the deed was completed and they had satisfied their mob revenge, people began to yell and cheer as if it was some grand sporting event. It was a stark reminder that mob reactions were often spontaneous and sometimes deadly.

  Mike and his crew moved on.

  A few miles further down the road, they came to a narrow bridge where they found cars stopped in front, on, and well beyond it. The jam must have been there for quite some time and the vehicles continued to stack up. The group had to find a way around it, which forced them to ford the river because the bridge was too dangerous.

  There was a small town named Fitch another twenty miles ahead, so they turned at the green mileage indicator and circled back and away from the road to take an alternate route that paralleled the arterial road toward the northeast. They would need to cross the river ahead and in this particular spot, the water was deep and swift.

  Water fell from the mountains in the near distance, gathering rapidly with streams and the momentum of the fast-moving water grew with each foot of travel. There wasn’t much chance of getting over from this spot, so they grabbed a right at the river’s edge and moved through the brush until a crossing spot came into view another five miles downstream of the bridge.

  It took a few minutes of searching for the small group of survivalists to spot an area that was suitable for crossing. They poked at it with sticks to get an idea of the depth of the water and it appeared to be shallow enough to cross. Including the high water area on both sides, the river was about a hundred fifty feet wide here, but Mike recognized eddies and swirls toward the middle that would help them maneuver the bikes and supplies across to the other side.

  The sandbar had grown through the years as the sediment washed down from the river and wedged together, one piece after another, forming this crossing. Without the sandbar, the width of the river and the swiftness of the water would have made it impassable. They could easily drown or lose all they carried with just one slip.

  Mike went first. The water came up to his chain and he was traveling fast. In a couple of places the bike sank further, wetting him up past his knees. Once he made it to the sandbar, he motioned for them to stay back. He wanted to try to get all the way across before any of them followed to ensure the others could make it safely.

  Because he was an experienced swimmer, Mike felt that if he went down he would survive the accident whereas some of the others might not. That was one tragedy he was determined to prevent. His bike slid on the loose stones and he almost lost it once, but finally made it. He unstrapped the shooter from across his back and set his bike against a tree, then chambered a round and made sure the safety was off.

  He held one finger up and motioned for them to come across one at a time, emulating a police officer directing traffic. He put a hand to his forehead, just above his eyes, as if to shade them from the sun, and he moved his head from left to right. All the time, he pointed his other hand out in front of him with his index finger extended.

  The signal meant to keep a good lookout for “unfriendlies” because the group was vulnerable here. An ambush could go down at any moment without warning and they had already witnessed a great deal of senseless violence. One-by-one they started to cross.

  The going was difficult, as all of them were packing a load and the bikes were a little off balance. When Caroline was across the river, she did the same as Mike by putting her sub-machine gun, or SMG, at the ready. She was guarding the area ahead of them and assumed a position with her back to Mike’s, each of them watching the other’s rear. Those still on the other side of the river watched in every direction as well.

  Everyone understood that if Mike fired, they were to drop immediately. He wouldn’t miss, but it was better
to give him as much room to fire as possible. Sam was next to cross and he guarded west while Greg watched east. Once they were all on the other side, they took a bearing before continuing on in order to pinpoint their position.

  The surroundings in which they found themselves were largely overgrown and covered in blackberry bushes, making the going slow. They knew they needed to travel through the thicket because the riverbank was simply too narrow and steep, and it would expose them to potential unfriendlies.

  Mike and Sam cut a path through with two of the machetes they had recovered at the last cache. Some of the bushes were ten feet tall, very thick, and they could lay a person open with some nasty cuts.

  The disagreeable job lasted about a half hour, but they were soon on their way again and past the onerous bushes. The turnoff to the cave was the next waypoint on Mike’s GPS, so he stopped to see how everyone was doing. They had been riding long enough for his butt to go numb and he thought theirs might be too.

  The short rest brought out idle conversations; it always did. They talked about what they had seen in their travels thus far while they absentmindedly finished off the last of the pemmican. The drizzle continued and everyone looked forward to arriving at the cave and getting a good fire going. There were enough of them now to post a guard so the rest could sleep safely.

  The group decided to spend the night at the cave and continue on to the next cache the following day. It was important to get off the trail, get out of the drizzle, dry out, and eat. Mike led the way. Twenty more minutes of riding found them at the turn off and he sent all but one of them ahead. He cut a few branches from a large bush and covered the bike tracks as best he could while Greg stood lookout. Satisfied with the concealment effort, they mounted up and followed the group. It was getting dark.

  The bushes that hid the cave entrance were much taller than the last time Mike had seen them months ago. He grimaced when he saw the tracks the others had left and covered the ground leading to the entrance.

  He surveyed the layout of the approaches to the cave with his back to the entrance and surmised that placing Claymores in a sweeping arc in the direction where he looked would block any surprises during the night. Walking out a hundred feet on the left, he placed one in the ground and away from there about twenty feet; he set another by gently pushing the spikes into the ground.

  Having set four more that completed the large arch, he strung and attached a trip wire to each of them and began the tedious task of removing the safety pins. He placed the pins in a small pocket on his vest to use again later; he didn’t want to lose those babies.

  When his defensive perimeter was complete, he walked over to his bike and pushed it behind the bushes that hid the entry to the cave. As he stepped into the “Roach Hotel,” as they fondly referred to it, he let the guard know not to shoot him.

  “Friendly One”

  “Pass through, brother,” came the reply.

  He was home for the night.

  Inside, the light from the new fire was bright and flickering. It burned fiercely from its dry and seasoned wood, and Mike saw there were three more group members added to their numbers. They had arrived earlier and waited, as planned. He noticed the fire was being drawn to the rear of the cave and up the “chimney” as he predicted it would when they first stumbled onto the hideout.

  Chad, Linda, and Penny were already here. Not everyone had made it on schedule, however, and there were still members missing. Caroline approached Mike and began to clean a few scratches he had received from chopping the blackberry bushes. They stung but once she put a dab or two of antibiotic ointment on them, the stinging stopped. Mike took some of the food she offered and gobbled it down quickly. He had forgotten how hungry he was. Pemmican, regardless of its sustaining qualities, couldn’t compare with a hot meal.

  “The coffee’s boiling,” Caroline mentioned. “Anyone want some?”

  “I do, thank you,” Mike said, and he noticed she was smiling at him when she spoke. “Incidentally, everyone, I have Claymores out there,” Mike said, “So if anyone needs to go to the bathroom, don’t go straight or left; go right and no more than five feet.”

  A couple of the women grumbled, but everyone relaxed as they ate the simple meal before them. Conversations flowed back and forth, and in a few minutes they drew straws to see who would stand the first watch while the others slept and dried out.

  Someone had chopped down a few saplings, limbed them, and put up a drying line for everyone’s wet clothes. They arranged them in a tripod position on each end and tied them together at the top of the three poles with some parachute cord, or paracord for short. It was lightweight and surprisingly strong. Mike was impressed at how far they had advanced from when he had started training them a few years ago. All that training was paying off in a big way because he no longer had to do it all himself.

  Once they set the watch, they could strip down to the essentials and dry out. They placed everything away from the fire and near a wall that prevented the dripping from interfering with the sleep area. The cave was large and everything fit nicely without being crowded, including the motorcycles. Mikes was the exception; his was staged outside in case it was needed on short notice.

  Greg and Sam drew the first watch, which was planned for four hours. One stood at the entry to the cave, while the other was positioned in a small stand of bushes a little farther out. Both of them were well-hidden but had a good view of all approaches to the cave and away from the Claymores.

  The cooking and cleanup was done, all the coffee was consumed, and now it was time to shed some clothes for drying. Mike began to set up the sleeping area. With a stiff branch, he gently swept the floor of the cave.

  It would be uneasy sleeping if one of them was lying on a rock or twig all night long. He placed a piece of 20 mil plastic sheeting down on the dirt floor as a moisture barrier to prevent the sleeping bags from getting wet and making it a more comfortable night’s sleep. It also eliminated the need to hang the sleeping bags out to dry the next day, since they were in a hurry and waiting for them to dry wasn’t an option.

  Some members preferred a small isolation mat that added a half-inch cushion and provided further insulation. They were similar to a mattress, but not as thick or heavy and often referred to as “trail beds.” They were more comfortable but bulkier to carry.

  Regardless, the group was prepared and the constant interaction with one another these past years had adequately readied each of them for almost anything. Everyone stripped the articles of clothing they wanted to dry, hung them up, and crawled into their bags.

  It made Mike laugh as he thought about it. Years ago when he first practiced this situation with these people, they were out in the open and a squall came through and soaked everyone. He showed them how to set up a shelter and a drying line for the wet clothes and how to get a fire going in quick succession.

  When he started stripping off his clothes, however, they all stood there watching him. He didn’t even take notice that they weren’t doing the same. It suddenly dawned on him what the problem was and he uttered hastily, “Look people, when stripping down to your underwear, you aren’t naked, you still have on clothing. You wear bathing suits don’t ya? Besides, sitting around in wet clothes will get you sick!”

  They stripped down as he had done and that was the last time anyone ever hesitated. Now here they were years later with everyone working effectively as a team. They had gotten the necessary things done smoothly and even stood watch without question.

  Thinking about it, Mike knew the next watch standers would suffer once awakened from a sound sleep and he was glad it wasn’t going to be him. His mind raced with the events of the day but he used an old trick of relaxation he had learned many years ago, and in thirty seconds he departed into a delicious dream that included Caroline.

  Man, Mike’s subconscious focused on her, she had great legs!

  An explosion brought everyone awake and Mike was the first out the door, clenching his sh
ooter. Outside and barely visible, Greg was holding his SMG to his chest and pointed away from himself. Mike went out further and there was Sam, looking bewildered. He shrugged his shoulders in an “I don’t know what it was” gesture.

  Mike had an idea and he cautiously worked his way toward some bushes that were on fire… right where he had planted a Claymore.

  Chapter 4 Wayward Victim

  Mike approached the burned area with caution. Something flopped around on the ground and his thumb flipped the selector from semi-automatic to full rock-and-roll. The light of the burning vegetation was fizzling out because of the rain and smell of burnt flesh, and the exploded gunpowder hung thickly in the air. It was still dark, and as Mike closed the distance, he saw a deer lying on the ground.

  “Crap!”

  What a waste of a good Claymore. He shot the deer once in the head, putting it out of its misery and dragged it back toward the cave. The others waited in anticipation for him to come back and they were all relieved when they saw he was not dragging a person.

  Mike busied himself gutting the animal and someone else cut and set in place a couple of sturdy poles with a cross piece tied to the top to hang the carcass until the morning. Truth be told, Mike was anxious to get back into his sleeping bag. He knew tomorrow was going to be a long day.

  A quickie clean up with the assistance of Caroline and it was sack time again. The adrenaline still coursed through his system and he knew getting back to sleep wouldn’t be easy. He closed his eyes and counted backward, again using a system he had learned years ago. “Ten, I am relaxing…, nine, I am getting sleepy…” and soon he was fast asleep. It was dawn when he woke up again.

  They decided to stash the empty gas cans in the cave once the bikes were topped off; they then gathered and placed the trash toward the back of the cave, as well. Mike applied a little chain lube to his bike chain and did the same to Caroline’s. Breakfast was started.