Apocalypse Trails: Episode 1

by Joe Nobody

  The faces of the two dead girls by the fence appeared in his mind. Yes, they were older than Callie and Sierra, but not by much. Would his beautiful daughters be forced to carry battle rifles to survive? Were there gangs of roving, wild men hunting his girls? What would become of an unprotected, gorgeous woman like Mylie? The nasty possibilities were all so maddening.

  If the not knowing wasn’t bad enough, Jack then identified the true source of the pain that dominated his soul. He had fucked up … made a huge mistake … and the realization of that fact was slowly killing him.

  He had sacrificed his family for his career. He had turned down the desk job that would have sent him home and allowed him to protect his wife and daughters.

  The chance for promotion and glory now seemed such a fleeting vision. Hell, the Pentagon was probably a smoldering heap of scorched stone and timber by now. The headquarters at Pearl Harbor had most likely been washed out to sea via a tidal wave.

  All of the locations Jack had envisioned as the home of his future life had evaporated in a plume of volcanic eruption. His dreams seemed so shallow and trivial now. Mylie had been right – his family was what was truly important. The US Navy meant nothing in comparison. His unrelenting drive to gain a few extra dollars on his paycheck now made him feel cheap and whorish.

  “I need to find my family,” he whispered to his empty quarters. “I need to get to Texas and help them survive. I need to let Mylie know that she was right all along. I need to tell them all that I’m sorry. They need to know that nothing in the world is more important to me than they are.”

  Jack reached for the drawer of his small desk, retrieving a single sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen. He would resign his commission and figure out a way to get to Texas. It was the only way he was ever going to sleep again.

  With a shaky hand, Jack began to compose the opening line of the letter. He startled when a soft rap sounded at the entrance to his quarters.

  “Sir,” a young sailor said, “the captain has requested your presence at the communications center. Colonel Thompson has died.”

  Chapter 4

  In a profession where death was often the result of employment, funerals became hallowed events. The United States military was no exception.

  Colonel Thompson’s record was unknown, his personnel file unavailable. There wasn’t even a dress uniform from which to recount his awards, badges, and ribbons, let alone to properly dress the body.

  Yet everyone knew the man had served with honor and distinction. The Marine Corps didn’t promote a person to his rank without merit.

  They wrapped him in a white sheet, the only preparations available to the gathered sailors and officers of Utah’s crew. Ulrich had decided on cremation, mostly because there really wasn’t any other option available. Digging a grave was out of the question, as was burial at sea.

  Then there was the flag. Other than Utah’s untouchable mast colors, there didn’t seem to be any acceptable version of the Stars and Stripes. The captain had ordered a search party to locate an appropriate emblem. Surely, such a critical item could be sited on one of America’s largest military installations?

  While Chief Daniels organized a group of sailors to search for a satisfactory version of Old Glory, Jack fumed. He had politely suggested that the ceremony proceed without a flag. Ulrich had cut his second in command off at the knees for even thinking such radical thoughts. Throughout the short ass chewing he received, Cisco kept thinking, “Wouldn’t it be better to risk those men’s lives searching for food instead of a flag that really has no meaning anymore?”

  Jack stood and watched the ceremony, his mind struggling to comprehend the entire situation. He’d attended a dozen burials with full military honors during his stint in the Navy. Despite the grey skies, unseasonably frigid temperatures, and doomsday atmosphere, Ulrich wanted to send the timeworn warrior out with a proper farewell.

  That tradition was well understood by Commander Cisco. He, of all people, the XO of a nuclear submarine, grasped the value of honoring the dead. Such a gesture was especially important when more of the crew might be asked to put their lives on the line for God, ship, or country.

  But that was no longer the case. Ship and country didn’t exist anymore, and Jack was sure that God didn’t give a rat’s ass about having a flag on a sheet-wrapped body. The pomp and circumstance of a military funeral was for the living, not the deceased, and Cisco didn’t think it was justified.

  The entire affair had rubbed Jack the wrong way. Ulrich was insistent that valuable resources be expended. Rather than bank every single bullet in their possession or dedicate patrols to acquiring sources of medicine and nourishment, the skipper tasked the men with preparing for a funeral.

  The pallbearers transferred the white-shrouded body to a pile of pallet wood that had been arranged by a group of Chief Daniel’s crewmen. Behind the six, solemn men stepped another, carrying a pair of boots pointing to the rear. There wasn’t any horse to follow the body and maintain the tradition of having boots facing backward in the stirrups. The three-volley salute was performed by Utah’s honor guard, Ulrich unconcerned with informing every ear in nearby San Diego that the base was again occupied. That decision had troubled Jack more than any other.

  Finally, the fire was ignited, the officers and crew standing in silence as the flames consumed the body. Cisco was sure the column of smoke could be seen for miles. It was a big, neon sign advertising their presence.

  Thompson died at his post … an honorable and noble deed, Jack kept thinking. But what does all of this mean now? What did he die for? What cause? He held his ground for the United States, but America no longer exists. Thompson’s men were already gone. There were no comrades, no unit, no purpose to his sacrifice.

  As Cisco scanned the faces of his crewmates, he couldn’t help but wonder if they all were asking themselves the same questions. His attitude continued to decline as Ulrich read from the Bible.

  What am I doing here? Jack thought. This ceremony is an exercise in futility – a waste of time and resources. We should be using our energy to survive, not bury the dead.

  Jack was just sitting to eat the morning’s bowl of rationed oatmeal when the sound of raised voices came from the galley. “I told you to wipe down this shelving yesterday, Seaman. What the hell is your problem? Just because the United States government has fallen doesn’t mean I’m going to operate a dirty mess hall. Get your shit in one bag sailor, or I’ll put you on report.”

  “But, sir, I did wipe down that area as you ordered,” came the defensive response. “I swear it, Chief.”

  “Bullshit! Now you’re lying to me! To hell with the report, I’m going to kick your sorry ass, you piece of shit!”

  Something slammed into the floor while the grunts and strains of fighting men came from the galley. Jack and two other members of the crew were up and moving in a heartbeat.

  It took only a few seconds to separate the two combatants, both apparently unharmed.

  “Report, Chief,” Cisco ordered, looking hard at the man in charge of the galley.

  “This lazy-assed crewman disobeyed orders and then lied to cover his misdeed, sir. I let my temper get away from me. I’m sorry, Commander.”

  “But I did follow orders, sir. I did clean those shelves just as the chief asked. I swear it,” interjected the accused.

  The chief pivoted and took two short steps, reaching for the storage area in question. He displayed a grey, dirty finger to the commander after a quick swipe. “Does this look like it has been recently cleaned, sir? Not only that, but I noticed a slight film on top of today’s soup. I run a clean operation here, sir.”

  Cisco walked to the metal shelves, running his own finger across the surface of not only the top unit, but all of the lower bins as well. Then, pinching his fingers together, he began rubbing them in small circles. “This doesn’t seem like dust … this is like the grit that is outside the ship.”

  “I don’t care where it came from, sir
. I run a clean operation here.”

  It took Cisco all of ten minutes to settle both of the crewmen down. No charges were to be filed and both men ended up shaking hands. Still, the commander was troubled by the grime.

  It took the engineers less than an hour to find the problem. “It’s our air intake system, sir. The filters aren’t designed to handle such tiny particles of matter. We cleaned the system out, but as long as we’re pumping outside air into the boat, we’re going to have this issue.”

  Captain Ulrich examined the sample provided and frowned. “What danger does this pose to our equipment and crew?”

  “I can’t say about the crew, sir. I suppose it’s not good to be breathing this stuff in. What I can say for certain is that this junk will foul our electronics and other critical machinery in short order,” replied the man in charge of the vessel’s major systems.

  “Including the reactor?”

  “No sir, it is probably fine, being a completely closed environment. Our water makers, computers, air pumps, and other life support systems are at risk. I’ve already found a layer of this stuff inside the main cooling pump, and I have a crew cleaning our primary electrical grid even as I make this report, sir.”

  Jack and Ulrich exchanged knowing looks, both men now having the answer to one of the most daunting questions at the forefront of their minds. Why had the crews of the other docked vessels abandoned their ships? Given the electrical power, clean water, and secure environment any of the nuclear powered hulls could provide, why were all of the other ships and boats at the base now cold and empty? Now they knew.

  “Let me guess, Lieutenant,” Ulrich continued, “If we don’t shut down our systems soon, we risk a major failure of one or more pieces of critical machinery?”

  The engineer frowned and then nodded, “Yes, sir. I was just getting to that. If our cooling systems fail, the reactor will automatically shut down. If our air circulation pumps become inoperable, then we can no longer push fresh air throughout the boat. Of course, the same applies to the water system.”

  “Shit,” was all the captain could say. Jack echoed the same sentiments.

  A few minutes later, the two senior officers were alone. “We’re going to have to find a new home,” Ulrich stated in a low voice. “Utah won’t be able to support us for long.”

  “Given what we’ve seen and heard, that’s not going to be an easy task,” Jack added, stating the obvious.

  “I thought electrical power and fresh water would be what held us together and gave us an advantage to survive this ordeal. Now that’s going to be taken away.”

  Jack didn’t know what else to say. There really wasn’t anything he could add, and for a brief, selfish moment, he was glad it wasn’t going to be his problem. Still, he felt a strong sense of loyalty to Ulrich and the crew. “Something will come up, sir. Our men are too well led and adaptive to let a little setback like this get in the way. We’ll figure it out, sir. Together.”

  “I hope you’re right, Jack. Let’s just pray this crazy world doesn’t throw us anymore curve balls … at least for a while.”

  Jack waited a few days after the discovery of the ash contamination before delivering his letter of resignation to the skipper. To describe Captain Ulrich’s expression as appalled would have been an understatement. Utah’s master seemed to have a hundred questions at once.

  “Why, Commander? How are you going to get to Texas? You’re going to abandon us at our darkest hour?”

  Jack maintained a spine-stiff stance at rigid attention, his eyes never leaving a spot on the wall three inches above his captain’s hairline. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have to find my family. Wondering how they are tasks me. They dominate my thoughts. I’m unable to properly perform my duties in this state.”

  “At ease, Jack. Have a seat. We need to talk about this,” Ulrich responded in a friendlier tone.

  Still expecting a full frontal assault, Jack hesitated to relax. Finally, he found the chair, all the while maintaining eye contact with a man who was clearly hurting.

  “I’ve been expecting this sort of thing from members of the crew for the last few days,” the skipper began. “But not from you … not from my XO. Why, Jack? Why now?”

  The question had been anticipated, Jack having rehearsed his answers over and over again. Now, face to face with the man, the proper, official, ‘military-esque’ response wouldn’t come. They were just two troubled souls, sitting at a table.

  A welling of honesty vented from Jack’s chest, respect and comradery overriding rank and the hierarchy of command. “Because none of this,” the commander began, his eyes sweeping their surroundings, “matters anymore.”

  Again, Cisco braced for an onslaught. What he had just said was heresy, sacrilege of the highest order, especially on a submarine.

  Instead, Ulrich simply nodded and sighed. He then reached into a desk drawer and produced a small bottle of rum and two shot glasses. “I agree, Jack. The US Navy is an institution of the past. But … I guess I was holding out hope that the crew’s loyalty to each other would override that fact. That’s what has kept me going for the last few days – the men.”

  Accepting the offered libation, Jack toyed with the heavy glass on the desk’s surface, his eyes seemingly lost in the swirling, amber liquid. “Believe me, sir, this wasn’t an easy, snap decision. This crew and the Navy are my life and livelihood in so many ways. Yet, I’m not Colonel Thompson, manning my post until my lungs can no longer draw air. That dedication to duty and honor, as noble as it may be, is misplaced by my thinking. The cause for which he was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice no longer exists. The only thing any of us have left is our families, Captain.”

  “What will you do?” Ulrich asked, seeming to accept his subordinate’s reasoning.

  “I have to figure out a way to reach Texas,” Jack answered truthfully. “That’s where I will start. I’m hoping to find Mylie and the girls safe and sound at her father’s ranch. If they’re not there, then I will go to Newport News where I left them before our last deployment.”

  “Texas? Oh, Lord, Jack. That’s over a thousand miles away. I’m sure you’ve noticed there aren’t any operating cars or trucks. Are you going to walk?”

  “Unknown, sir. I didn’t want to let my personal issues interfere with my duties. I haven’t thought my strategy through just yet.”

  Both men sat in silence for a moment, both pondering Jack’s journey. Chief Daniels had attempted to start one of the base’s pickup trucks, only to find the engine’s air intake systems completely fouled with ash. A fresh filter accomplished little, the entire fuel system already caked with grit.

  Combined with the fact that gasoline seemed to be one of the first things looted after Thompson’s Marines had been overrun, the circumstances had put a serious dent in Jack’s travel ambitions. Still, he was as determined as ever. There had to be a way.

  Clearing his throat, Ulrich pulled his XO back to the present. “I’ll accept your resignation, Jack, with one condition. I want you to keep this between us for a few more days. I’ve been trying to work through how to handle this new world of ours with the crew, and now you’ve forced my hand. While I wish you would stay and help us all figure this out, I completely understand the need to find your family. My wife was supposed to have met me here in San Diego. I’m going to stay here and pray every night that she shows up at the front gate.”

  Jack nodded, relieved that he hadn’t burned what was a very important bridge. The captain was a great man in his own right – not the sort Cisco wanted to have on the negative side of life’s ledger.

  The crew was gathered, 40 men huddled against the cold on the concrete that was Utah’s dock. Captain Ulrich stood on the gangplank, slightly above the throng of eager faces that reflected curiosity and anticipation.

  In reality, only their eyes were visible. Everyone now wore some sort of cloth over their noses and mouths, an effort to protect their throats and lungs from the irritating ash and pumice
that still tainted the atmosphere. Jack suppressed a grunt as he scanned the gathering. If he had been a stranger approaching the scene, it would have been easy to assume that the captain was preparing to address a group of Bedouin tribesmen or Middle Eastern insurgents.

  The most prevalently used style of facial protection was the shemagh. Basically an oversized dinner napkin, the folded and wrapped mask had been made popular by British SAS troopers during the first Gulf War. Covering the head, neck, and face, the simple rectangle of cotton helped safeguard from neck-pinching straps, swirling Arabian sands, and the heat of the day.

  One of the men had spied a case of painter’s masks in a machine shop on base. Easily attached and removed, those that chose this style of protection resembled a team of surgeons from a daytime soap opera.

  Others had taken to using handkerchiefs, electing the ‘Wild West outlaw’ look.

  In the few days since they had surfaced, Jack had selected the shemagh, wrapping it a style that Chief Daniels described as “a Palestinian gunman going to the policeman’s ball.”

  The post-apocalyptic wardrobes on display were further enhanced by the crew’s selection of footwear. Gone were the deck shoes provided by the Navy, replaced by scavenged, Marine Corps issued combat boots. The ash couldn’t penetrate the higher, infantry-style boots, and that greatly reduced irritation.

  And then there were the weapons.

  No one in this parallel universe was safe without firepower, but this seemed odd to Jack. Sailors toting rifles, bandoliers … even a few of his crewmates sporting body armor and load vests bulging with spare magazines … just didn’t seem right. The skirmish just beyond the gate had opened a lot of eyes. The world had changed, and having enough ammunition was now critical to survival.

  As their comrades had fallen, Colonel Thompson’s Marines had salvaged their casualties’ equipment. The Utah men had discovered rooms full of the stuff, everything from M4 carbines to grenades. While the Abrams battle tanks at the front entrance had run out of ammunition for their big cannons and secondary machine guns, there was still a significant stockpile of small arms and some ammo inside the communications center.