Apocalypse Trails: Episode 1

by Joe Nobody

  Clearing his throat, Captain Ulrich began, “Men, I’ve called you here this morning to discuss our futures. As all of you are aware, the world underwent a drastic change while we were submerged. As of this moment, we have not been able to establish any communications with the US Navy or the government. This development thrusts all of us into uncharted waters. There is no precedent, no example, nothing in our history or training to guide us.”

  The skipper scanned the faces gathered around, giving his words a moment to soak in. “I am well aware that many of you now long for news or contact with loved ones. Others are questioning our purpose in this new environment. Many of us look at the future through less than optimistic eyes.”

  Ulrich again paused, this time clearing his throat. Is it the ash in the air or his stirring emotions, Jack pondered? Probably both.

  “After lengthy debates and much discussion, I have reached a conclusion and wanted to call all of you together to make sure there are no misunderstandings. Given the unusual situation we find ourselves in, I have determined that any of you may be granted indefinite leave. If you wish to exit San Diego and this base, I will sign the orders allowing you to legally do so. While I hope that anyone thinking of venturing out into the unknown takes the time to weigh the seriousness of the dangers involved, neither the US Navy nor I will stand in your way.

  Jack noted a wave of shock shuddering through the throng. No one uttered a sound; they were far too disciplined for that, but there was a difference in posture and breathing. It has been said that the eyes are the windows of the soul, and every pair of pupils staring over the sea of masks changed in that instant.

  “For those who decide to stay here, you are welcome. I will conduct our operations here with traditional military rules and regulations. I intend to remain with my command and do my best to keep Utah in an operational state. Eventually, I believe the US government … and all of mankind … will need my service.”

  A few of the gathered sailors glanced at each other, confusion clouding their expressions. Ulrich continued, “I do, however, wish to be absolutely clear on one point. While I am sincere in my commitment to the Navy and Uncle Sam, I am also staying with our boat because I am convinced that it is my best chance of survival. Here, with Utah, we have electrical power, clean water, and a defensible position. We have comfortable quarters, medical care, and a host of other necessities that may no longer exist beyond the gates. I ask that every single one of you consider these parameters before making a decision. Are there any questions?”

  Jack wasn’t surprised when several hands shot skyward. The first question was one of the best, “How much food is left, sir?” asked one of the engineering department’s enlisted men.

  “With what we scavenged here at the base, combined what remained aboard Utah, we have approximately 12 days of rations,” Ulrich responded. “For those who choose to stay, you can expect to be assigned to shore patrols with the goal of identifying additional food sources. After security, this will be our highest priority.”

  “How long will you stay with the boat, sir?” another sailor inquired.

  “Until we are relieved, reassigned, or die of old age,” the skipper replied without hesitation. “I, personally, have nowhere else to go. The Utah is my family and my home.”

  Ulrich’s heartfelt answer initiated another wave of reaction through the crew, several of the men nodding their agreement. The Navy was like that. A lot of men have only their ship to call home. Jack waxed philosophical before contemplating his own reality. Heck, that might include me even if my wife did survive.

  The questions continued for some time, some of the men voicing concerns that Ulrich couldn’t address. No, he hadn’t received any other news than what had already been distributed among the crew. No, he had not secretly been in contact with the Pentagon.

  The formation was dismissed after more than an hour of a remarkably frank and open discussion between officers and enlisted men. Ulrich closed the session by stating that anyone who wanted to take leave would be issued a weapon, ammunition, water, any of the salvaged Marine equipment he could carry, as well as three days of rations.

  His final admonition was perhaps the most accommodating of all, “And comrades, remember that you are welcome back here. If your travels prove too difficult or impossible, you can always report for duty at the front gate.”

  Jack had no idea how many of the crew planned to stay and how many were going to join him in exiting the relatively safe confines of Utah, the companionship of his fellow seamen, and the surrounding base. He was certain some of the sailors hadn’t made up their minds. For his part, the commander couldn’t wait to get started for Texas.

  After congratulating the skipper on his presentation and forethought, Jack tramped through the ash toward the communications center. He noted that the sun seemed a bit brighter today but then wondered if it was just his outlook now that he had chosen a path. No, he thought, the light does seem to be breaking through. Maybe it’s a sign?

  With his new boots crunching through the volcano’s spew, the commander began working on his mental checklist of supplies and equipment he would need for his journey. A map, canteens, weapon, some sort of pack or ruck, and a host of other travel items circulated through his mind. A voice in the back of his head worried about undertaking an expedition of over a thousand miles, his brain concerned about his physical conditioning. Not to mention the uncertain circumstance of the terrain between the west coast and the Lone Star State.

  “You’re a sailor, not an infantryman,” he chided in self-doubt.

  While the commander had always been athletic, he was 32 years old and a submariner. While he did his best to stay in shape, submarines weren’t exactly equipped with world-class gyms. At one point, he’d even considering staying with Utah’s crew and initiating a training regimen. The problem, he soon discovered, was that any sort of serious cardio workout was nearly impossible given air that was thick with grit and ash.

  Still, memories of Mylie and the girls steeled his determination. He could walk. He could carry a pack. He would find his family.

  The commander had read that the average infantryman could carry his pack and weapon 20 miles per day. He didn’t need a calculator to figure out that it was going to take 50 days of dedicated hiking to journey to Texas. Daunting, but not impossible. Best case scenario, this voyage would require a little less than two months, and Jack was sure he could endure practically anything for seven weeks.

  As he entered what was now Utah’s command center, Cisco was greeted by a young seaman standing guard. The kid looked anxious. “Everything ship-shape here, son?” Jack asked.

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Are you going to stay with Utah or try to make it home?” Jack inquired with a friendly tone.

  The man before him was young, perhaps 19 years old. Blinking several times while he formed a response, the now-nervous young sailor answered, “I’m … I don’t … undecided, sir.”

  “Where is home, son?”

  “Hannibal, Missouri, sir.”

  Jack whistled, “That’s quite a distance.”

  “Yes, sir, it is. My folks live just outside of town. I’m worried about my parents and little sister. I joined the Navy to earn money for college and to get away from the Show-Me State, but now I can’t think of much else but home. I’m just not sure what to do, sir.”

  “It will come to you, sailor. Don’t rush the decision.”

  “What about you, sir? Are you staying?”

  Jack shook his head, “No, I’m heading to Texas in a few days. Matter of fact, that’s why I’m here. I want to start gathering up some gear for the trip.”

  The kid plotted the geometry in his head, the fact that his home was in the same general direction dawning quickly. “Maybe we should travel together, sir? I mean … if the commander agreed.… Well, there might be safety in numbers, sir.”

  Cisco hadn’t considered that. Would there be other men wanting to journey to Texas? A
group might have a better chance of success. “That’s an interesting idea, sailor. Let me think on it.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Jack left the sentry at his post, both of the men having a lot to ponder. The commander could see positives and negatives in traveling with one or more comrades.

  After negotiating the halls, he happened upon one of the main rooms used by the Marines to store the equipment from their fallen brothers. Jack paused at the door, a deepening sense of melancholy filling his gut as he peered in at the stacks of gear.

  For a moment, he wondered if he was violating some sense of honor or grief by utilizing items retrieved from men who had fallen defending their posts and country. While it was well known that armed forces all over the world picked up weapons from the battlefield, Jack still hesitated.

  “The Marines wouldn’t have gathered this stuff up if they didn’t intend to use it,” he whispered to the unoccupied room. “That is what it is here for.”

  Pushing aside the gloom that clouded his attitude, he stepped in and pulled a single sheet of paper from his pocket.

  Jack discovered that the equipment had been sorted into stacks and organized piles. Long guns were displayed along one wall, near a heap of magazines. This area of M4 and M16 rifles sported optics, slings, and flashlights mounted on the rails.

  During his term at Annapolis, Cadet Cisco had been trained a grand total of two hours with the US military’s long gun of choice, the M4 Carbine. He could barely remember anything about the weapon, and now he wished he’d paid more attention. “We’re the Navy,” he remembered telling a classmate. “We launch nuclear warheads, fire 14-inch guns and Tomahawk cruise missiles. What good is this little pea shooter going to do?”

  Another hour had been spent with a sidearm. Jack could remember even less about the commonly issued 9mm Beretta. The Marines, however, didn’t even use that same pistol.

  “You’re a red-blooded, American male who grew up watching John Wayne movies. You should instinctively know how to shoot. You’re the new Cisco Kid,” he mumbled to the stacked firearms.

  After picking what appeared to be the cleanest rifle with the simplest optic, Jack then employed the same selection criteria for one of the .45 caliber handguns.

  Next, he approached a stack of body armor. The commander couldn’t believe how heavy the dusty and gritty plate carriers were. “My God, these have to weigh seven or eight pounds each.”

  He was also shocked to see several of the vests were stained with blood.

  Item by item, Jack processed his list. He found the huge backpacks in a corner, next to a pile of sleeping bags and mattresses. There were mess kits, canteens, spare magazines for both weapons, and a large knife/bayonet marked ‘OKC.’

  “This reminds me of the time I went to an Army surplus store with my dad,” he noted as he gathered the gear.

  For over an hour he worked his way around the room, rejecting some items, identifying other pieces of kit that he hadn’t considered. He found himself window-shopping through the inventory as he tried to envision how he might find different items useful on his trip. Sometimes it took him a minute or two to realize the gadget’s intended purpose. Looks like those jarheads got all the goodies, he thought. I never even realized personal medical kits were an option.

  Finally, with his selections piled near the door, Jack began filling the pack. After two attempts at rearranging the objects in the cavernous interior, he finally managed to tuck everything inside. It then dawned on the commander that he still didn’t have any food, water, or ammunition in his ‘luggage.’

  Even more surprising was the way lifting the backpack seemed to pull his spine completely out of alignment.

  “My God!” he quipped. “This thing must weigh 70 pounds, and I still have nothing to eat, drink, or shoot.”

  He tried again, thinking that the ruck would be easier to manage if he could somehow hoist it on his back. Cisco lost his balance and collided with the floor, staring hard at the monster he’d created.

  “There is no way I can walk 20 miles per day carrying all that shit,” he whispered. “Hell, I don’t think I could get it down to the sub.”

  The commander’s frustration building, he began unpacking his treasures, scrutinizing each one as he retrieved them from the bag. He was bound and determined to reduce the load, yet, he could mentally put every piece to good use during his journey. “You’ll have to cook,” he said, holding the mess kit.

  “You’ll need water, especially out in the desert,” he noted, hefting the canteen.

  Pissed, disappointed, and at the end of his rope, Jack plopped down and studied his collection. “How in the hell does the infantry carry all of this shit and then fight?” he pondered.

  Frustrated with his failed packing attempt, Jack realized he needed to take the time to regroup before reconsidering his choices. Sauntering from the problematic backpack, he sighed heavily and stretched his muscles, now stiff from sitting. Gazing around the makeshift stockroom, the commander’s attention was drawn to a collage of photographs on a nearby wall. It was an art collection typical of so many military installations, the old pictures creating a visual history of the unit through its simple assortment of snapshots taken from previous engagements. Many of the images were captured during a time when black and white photography was the standard of the day.

  One of the larger examples was captured during the Vietnam conflict, three shirtless sailors standing proudly in front of what appeared to be a river patrol boat. Jack could make out the oversized, block white letters of the vessel’s designation, as well as the hefty machine gun mounted just in front of the pilothouse.

  It wasn’t the boat or the sailors that drew his attention, however. In the background, some sort of trail or path seemed to snake through the dense, jungle foliage. Several Vietnamese natives posed for the camera, the first few standing beside bicycles that were loaded to the gills with bundles.

  “That’s it!” Jack snapped, rising quickly to move closer to the photo. “I’ve read where the North Vietnamese moved entire divisions by bicycle. I can travel further per day and carry more stuff. I need a bike!”

  A few minutes later, Jack rushed up to Chief Daniels. “Where can I find a bicycle on this base?”

  The older enlisted man was clearly perplexed by the officer’s inquiry, but after a few sentences of quick explanation, the chief of the boat nodded his head in understanding.

  “To answer your question, sir, I haven’t seen any bikes in my patrols around the base. The PX was cleared to the bare shelves of food and batteries, and the rest of the place was trashed. About the only thing I know to tell you is to start searching the housing section. Maybe some of the men stationed here were cyclists.”

  Jack didn’t like the idea of rummaging through private residences and had to question how long it would take to find a suitable model. He needed a mule on two wheels, not some fancy racing bike or child’s Christmas present. “Thanks, Chief,” he responded, now wondering if the entire trip to Texas was logistically feasible.

  “You could probably find a bicycle store nearby, sir,” the enlisted man then added. “I noticed a phone book in one of the offices. I’m sure a couple of the men would go with you to retrieve a set of wheels. Hell, you might start a new trend, sir.”

  The thought of going off base bothered the commander. First of all, it was against orders. Secondly, after the firefight he’d witnessed by the fence, he wondered how safe such a quest could be. Getting one of his crewmates killed so he could retrieve a bicycle didn’t seem like a noble cause.

  Still, he couldn’t figure out any other method of travel. While he was in reasonably good physical condition, even paring back his pack to the absolute bare essentials, there was no way he could carry the damn thing through the mountains and desert that stood between San Diego and Texas.

  Jack began walking, deep in thought, trying to solve the problem from any angle … visions of Mylie, Sierra, and Callie always at the forefront of h
is mind. He had to get to them. There was no other option.

  His stroll of contemplation brought the commander to the communications center where he’d left the now ominous pile of military hardware. He decided it wouldn’t hurt to go in and check out the chief’s recommendation. Maybe there was a bike shop close by. “Eventually, you have to head out of those gates anyway,” he resolved.

  He found a copy of the yellow pages in the third office searched. San Diego was ripe with bicycle shops, page after page of little, square box ads meeting the commander’s gaze. His next problem was resolving the addresses. He didn’t know the California city all that well, and his boots weren’t exactly equipped with GPS.

  He found a San Diego map on the wall of Thompson’s old quarters, the smell of the dying man still thick in the room. Jack took down the gas station folder and returned to a brighter environment by the front entry.

  In 20 minutes, he found three different bike shops within two miles of the front entrance. He was just about to fold and store the city street map when Captain Ulrich cleared his throat. “Going somewhere already, Commander?”

  Jack grunted, “Yes, sir. I’m going shopping.”

  Again, Cisco explained his reasoning and solution. Ulrich thought his subordinate’s idea was inspired. “I’ll tell the chief to assign a couple of men to go with you. Safety in numbers, Commander.”

  “Sir, while I appreciate the offer, I think I’ll go solo on this little adventure. I don’t want to endanger any of the crew, and I think I can sneak in and out by myself. A big patrol would be easier to spot. We would make more noise and leave a larger footprint.”

  Ulrich considered Jack’s words and finally nodded. “Up to you, Commander. I would definitely take a few extra magazines along … just in case.”