by Joe Nobody
“Aye, sir,” Jack replied, his superior’s words reminding him that he needed a refresher course on how to operate the Marine rifle. He said as much to Ulrich.
“You’re in luck, Jack. I’ve ordered one of our best to give a class tomorrow morning. Chief Daniels and I decided that our entire crew might have to defend this base … or Utah. I believe Pier 7 has been designated as the firing range. Be there with your weapon and ammunition at zero six hundred hours.”
“Yes, Captain … and thank you.”
Chapter 5
With his rifle and four spare mags full of 5.56 NATO, Jack approached the front gate. Despite the always-overcast sky and chilling temperature, he was already perspiring.
For a moment, he paused, wondering if his sweat was due to the extra weight of the rifle and ammo, or if he was merely scared. “Both,” he whispered in honesty.
The commander wasn’t the only one who sensed the cold chill of fear at journeying into the unknown.
Yesterday, the kid from Hannibal had backed out. “I know you’re going to think I’m a coward, sir, but after what you encountered outside the gates, I think I’m going to stick it out here with the crew and Captain Ulrich,” he’d said.
“I don’t think less of you at all, sailor,” Jack had reassured the young man. “There’s not an hour that goes by that I don’t have second thoughts about all this.”
Still, his wife and family called. He had to go. He had to find them, no matter what the risk. Staying would cause him far more pain and discomfort than the fear of leaving. “Like the last presidential election,” he quipped. “Sometimes your choice is between a shit sandwich and a kick in the nuts.”
For this trip he had decided to begin a short training regiment, donning body armor and a load vest for his ammo.
The instruction he’d received from one of Utah’s few sailors capable of leading such a class had been invaluable. Jack felt like he could aim, fire, and reload his weapon with some proficiency. He had also appreciated what the young sailor had termed, “remedial drills,” which were basically how to clear a jammed weapon. He’d practiced slapping home a full magazine for over an hour last night.
The M4 he’d selected was equipped with what everyone called an ACOG scope. “Optic,” Jack corrected himself. “It’s an optic, not a scope.”
According to the Master at Arms giving the class, the ACOG had been selected by the Marines because it didn’t require a battery and was a very robust piece of equipment. Jack liked it because it was very easy to use.
They had thrown targets out into the water, and each student had fired over 100 rounds. The drill had actually been fun. Other than the risk of the noise, the class had been a complete success.
Now, getting ready to enter a post-doomsday world, he wasn’t so confident. It was one thing to shoot floating buoys and a crab trap. Firing at a man who was shooting back at you was a completely different story.
So the commander was going to take it slow, stay behind cover, and avoid contact if at all possible. “Not everyone still alive in San Diego wants to kill you,” he whispered as he strolled through the front gates. That optimism quickly eroded by the scene on the other side of the base’s perimeter.
The carnage must have been off the scale. There were piles of scrap metal that had been automobiles at one point in time, now mostly covered in the ever-present coating of grey ash. Jack could identify sections of civilian cars, pickup trucks, a fire engine, and several police cars.
He’d hiked almost 100 yards through the scrap yard before he began to notice the body parts here and there. An arm missing most of its flesh stuck up between the warped fender of what had been an ambulance and another vehicle. He spotted a delivery van that had so many holes blown in its cargo section he could see right through the metal walls. Two blackened skulls rested near its rear wheels.
Each step brought a new scene that gave evidence to the horrific slaughter of human life that had transpired just a few months before. The fact that the massacre had occurred on his beloved American soil made the bloodbath all the worse in Jack’s mind.
It all seemed so senseless. Why had the citizens of this city died by the hundreds trying to get past the Marines guarding the gate? Why had they continued to come, wave after wave, attacking what was obviously a meat grinder defending the base’s perimeter? What could have possibly motivated people to choose such an irrational action?
A few minutes later, he passed through the last of the battlefield, finally deciding that he probably would never know the answers to his questions. “Maybe you don’t want to know the full story,” he whispered.
In the distance, he spotted the skyscrapers of downtown, the darkened panes staring back at him like the blank eyes of Halloween jack-o-lanterns on a distant porch. He wondered how many real, live humans were watching him from those windows.
After another few minutes, the commander found himself in a typical urban area. There were dozens of hotels and boutiques, a park, a few gas stations, and an assortment of professional buildings.
Jack stayed off the streets as much as possible, trekking behind structures and through parking lots and access allies. At one point, he found himself kneeling behind the sign of a fast food drive-thru lane. “I’ll have two bacon cheeseburgers and an order of onion rings,” he whispered into the darkened menu board.
Always moving slowly, he scouted ahead and moved his head on a swivel. He tried to mimic the stealth of the two girls he’d observed outside the base’s fence. He prayed the outcome would be different today.
Not once did he detect a single sign of life. No insects buzzed his head. There were no barking dogs or screeching cats. It was an eerie, silent world of pewter-colored winter.
Then he approached an intersection where his secondary street crossed a much wider boulevard. Where the ash had blown off windshields and bumpers, he could distinguish the obvious signs of a battle.
Jack spotted cars lined up in both directions of the larger thoroughfare. Directly to his front, the clear outline of several police cars formed a roadblock. Hundreds of small holes peppered the law enforcement vehicles.
The first bicycle store on his planned route was located on the main boulevard, but the shops here were too far back to provide decent cover. Finally crouching in a half-bent run, Jack decided to use the traffic jam and began jogging between the lines of gridlocked relics.
He hadn’t darted more than 50 yards when he tripped over a body concealed in the ashen residue. Unfortunately, the powder-like coating didn’t soften his landing.
Cursing, he rose and dusted himself off. In doing so, his actions brought him face to face with two skeletons in the front seat of a neighboring sedan. A smaller set of bones remained in the back, still strapped into a child’s protective seat.
Cisco had been wondering where everyone had gone, and now this off-base expedition was beginning to fill in some blanks. The next landmark on his map provided even more answers.
The freeway was a big, multi-lane affair, connecting the base’s surrounding neighborhoods and businesses with the mainland and downtown San Diego. The eeriely noiseless scene before him included an overpass, entrance and exit ramps, the ever-present green directional signs, and thousands and thousands of cars.
The eastbound lanes were like a parking lot for as far as the commander could see. Jack had seen his fair share of traffic jams, but this was off the scale.
As he climbed to the top of the bridge-like structure, he realized that he was viewing the aftermath of a desperate exodus. Not only were all three lanes filled bumper to bumper, but the emergency areas alongside the pavement were packed as well.
Some drivers had evidently tried to drive through the grass to escape the gridlock. There wasn’t a single square of open space where a frantic driver hadn’t tried to avoid the snarled traffic. The motorists probably hadn’t gotten far, Jack concluded. The surface streets were packed like sardines as well.
Some of the vehicles were par
ked with doors and trunks open; a few had their truck lids sticking into the air. Every single set of wheels within his sightline had its gas cap door ajar.
“Why?” Jack mumbled. “Were you afraid of a tsunami? Earthquake? Was the evacuation ordered? Why would you all leave your homes and venture out into this?”
Realizing he wasn’t going to get an answer, the commander continued across the freeway, hustling over the open lanes that headed west and toward the ocean. No one had pursued safety in that direction.
On the far side of the overpass, Jack encountered his next obstacle. A grocery store … or at least what was left of it.
Columns of black soot darkened the brick sides of the massive building, evidence of a blistering hot fire. Part of the roof and one wall had caved in. The entire area sported a pungent stench, a mixture of burnt plastic and rotting flesh.
Unlike most of the businesses he’d passed, Cisco first noted that the parking lot was just as densely packed as the freeway. Even the sidewalks were occupied by the grey-coated outline of vehicles wedged in place for eternity. “There was a mad rush for food,” Jack whispered, overlooking the scene, imagining the bedlam that had ensued. “Somebody got mad … or desperate … or was just plain mean,” he continued. “I wonder if gunplay started this little war?”
There were two empty lots across the street, light brush providing no cover. After studying the terrain for several minutes, Jack decided there was no ideal method of passage. The only possible route that didn’t expose him completely was to work his way through the overflowing parking area of the scorched chain store – and that wasn’t going to be easy.
The commander descended the incline, searching for a clear path among the never-ending rows of cars. This wasn’t like a normal parking area with open lanes and handicap spaces. Like the freeway, every square inch of the place seemed to be covered by sheet metal. A number of the steel skeletons had been crumpled and squeezed together when the lot’s capacity was grossly exceeded. The term ‘fender bender’ took on an entirely new meaning when the vehicles were pressed together like sardines in a can.
Jack scooted by two high-end sedans that had met in a crunch. The bullet holes in the German luxury model’s windshield indicated who had won the disagreement that had most likely ensued. “I’ve got your insurance papers, pal,” Cisco hissed, making a pistol out of his index finger and thumb. “Right here.”
Of course, the blocked lane and gunfight had caused panic. The car directly behind the shot-up sedan had tried to back out of the line of fire, only to slam into the pickup behind it.
Pulling himself away, Jack continued his expedition, picking his way around the sea of hoods and trunk lids.
The commander felt uncomfortable baring himself on all sides in the oversized lot, yet was constantly being required to climb over bumpers or fenders. He turned toward the building, hoping there would be fewer obstacles nearer the structure.
Pushing aside the disgusting odor, he discovered that indeed, the trek was easier alongside the outer wall of the mega-market. His pace increased, Jack’s confidence now growing with each step.
That quickly changed, however, when the commander reached the chain store’s series of front doors.
At first, Jack thought the ash had drifted from the wind and simply created a mound around one side of the enormous store. When he spied the first skeletonized arm poking from the ridge, he realized that he was staring at a pile of corpses encased under the volcanic debris.
The inferno inside the store must have spread quickly, a mass of panicking bodies rushing for the entrance. They hadn’t made it.
Jack had heard the stories before the apocalypse of human stampedes at soccer games, rock concerts, and nightclub fires. When there were too many consumers and too few exits, people became trapped inside and died in droves.
The situation here had been exasperated by the cars and trucks that had boldly pulled up right in front of the doors, blocking the escape routes of the panicked masses.
Peering toward the interior of the now-destroyed building, Jack could see that the mountain of human rubble and building wreckage continued inside for quite some distance. He could almost hear the screaming, surging throng. People had been crushed and trampled. The agony of those last few moments made the commander shudder. He could feel the suffering that had occurred here – could feel it down inside his core.
Visions of Mylie and the girls drew Jack back to the task at hand. He had to get a bicycle. He had to make it to Texas. He had to save his family from a similar fate. He began working his way around the mass crematorium.
Finally, he was free of the carnage of the grocery store, moving out into fresher air. Fresh if you didn’t count the persistent volcanic grit that was always circumventing his goggles, mask and gloves, irritating his nose, mouth, and eyes.
He found that the “2-Wheel Freedom” bicycle shop was relatively undisturbed. The double doors that had beckoned customers from the street were still locked, the window glass intact.
For a moment, Jack stood and deliberated his options. Then, disgusted with his hesitation, the commander picked up a nearby trash can and heaved the heavy container through the front glass.
“Sorry,” he mumbled as the hefty shards fell to the ground in a crash.
He cursed his stupidity a second time when he paused, anticipating the unwelcome shriek of a burglar alarm. “You have to develop an entirely new mindset,” he reproached. “There are no more police … or alarms … or people for that matter. Take what you need to survive.”
Still, he felt a twinge of guilt as he entered the store, the broken glass crunching under his boots.
Jack’s mood brightened noticeably when he spied the rows of bicycles along both walls. There were racks of accessories, ranging from saddlebags to headlights and clothing. He’d definitely come to the right place.
“Do you accept credit cards?” he whispered to the empty interior. “I’m interested in the best cross-country bike you’ve got. I’m planning a long trip that might require some off-road pedaling.”
As Cisco browsed the first aisle of brightly colored bikes, it dawned on the submariner that there were literally dozens of options, and he had no idea what type of machine would best suit his needs.
There were models with extremely fat tires, small wheels, tall wheels, heavy frames, and thin, frail-looking tubes. One section advertised touring options, another touted commuter features. He spotted a sign indicating mountain bikes, which sounded like just the ticket for the cross-country doomsday cyclist. On the way to examine one of the more rugged-looking units, he noticed a banner advertising racing versions that purported extremely light weight and high gearing. “Maybe fast is better,” he mumbled. “I might need to outrun marauding gangs or wild animals.”
There were too many options, Jack’s mind making argument and counter-argument for each and every variety.
Two factors, however, kept coming to the forefront of his thoughts. The ash, and the mass he was going to be carrying across it. “Could I take a couple of these models out for test drives?” he asked the non-existent salesperson.
A short time later, Jack was pedaling around the parking lot like a kid on Christmas morning, testing a candy apple red speed demon.
Next he tested a mountain bike with shock absorbers and disk brakes.
He was just pulling a third unit from the in-store rack when movement across the street drew Jack’s eye.
“Oh shit,” he whispered, looking around frantically for the weapon he’d set down. “You are not alone. Don’t ever forget that.”
Now, with his rifle in his shaking hand, Cisco moved to the front of the store and took a knee behind a thick-looking display of tires and spoke wrenches. He began to scan the area where he’d noticed the motion.
It then dawned on the naval officer that he should be using the magnified option atop his rifle. Cursing his stupidity yet again, Jack began slowly sweeping the stores across the street.
&n
bsp; Unblinking from fear and adrenaline, Jack nearly missed the feather. It was a color common in nature, unthreatening, ruffling slightly in the light breeze. “But you haven’t seen a bird since we surfaced,” he whispered.
Sure enough, the plume was attached to the top of a head. The face belonging to the head was painted white, barely visible as the man in Jack’s optic hid behind a dumpster.
It was nearly a minute later that Cisco spotted the second bird-man. He was a bit closer, lying prone behind a drift of ash. With their bodies painted grayish white and neutral clothing, the duo blended in well with the surroundings.
Jack kept scanning, looking for any telltale sign of other featherheads. If they were around, he couldn’t see them.
The pair across the street eventually stood, hustling quickly across to Jack’s side of the road. The commander could see both carried rifles and long knives.
They plunged to the ground again, and this time, Jack couldn’t see them. His heart started hammering in his chest, his brain screaming for retreat.
“Why didn’t you check if this place had a back door?” he questioned in a low, barely audible voice. “Too late now. Note to self – whenever you enter a building, make sure there is an alternate way out before you do anything else.”
Jack eyed his latest test drive, the bike propped against a nearby wall. He wondered if the men now approaching his position were proficient shots, able to hit a moving rider.
They reappeared, moving quickly toward the bicycle store, both of them peering at the ground as they darted here and there. It then occurred to Jack that he was being tracked. They could follow his footprints in the ash. “Fuck!” he hissed. “Didn’t think of that.”
They bounded toward him, each taking turns being in front, like a pair of kids playing leapfrog. But Jack knew this was no child’s game.
When the pair of bird-men spotted the first set of Jack’s bicycle tracks, they seemed confused. After a brief, quieted exchange, the larger of the two then visually tailed the tire prints back to the bicycle store. He motioned his comrade forward. Both of them dropped into a crouch, approaching with extreme caution.
