by Bobby Akart
He’d already given up his shelter gear consisting of a tent and sleeping bag. He was trying to eliminate the bulk he had to travel with. He felt he could locate suitable shelter along the way and chose to carry cold-weather clothing to help ward off the continuously falling temperatures.
Peter said his goodbyes, and Asia had ventured out onto the sidewalk with her family to wish him well. He found himself nervous for several reasons. One, he had a long way to get home, and he’d learned desperate people were everywhere. Second, the effects of nuclear winter had set in, making conditions uncertain. Finally, with all eyes upon him, he wasn’t sure whether he could make it out of the apartment’s parking lot without wrecking.
Growing up, he’d had the opportunity to ride another kid’s bike on occasion. It had been twenty years or more. Today, it wasn’t second nature. However, learning to ride again might be what kept him alive. He took a deep breath and recalled a Chinese proverb he’d heard once. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. He was ready.
Peter set his jaw, took a deep breath, and placed his left foot on the pedal. As if he were riding a scooter or a skateboard, he pushed off the asphalt with his right several times in order to get up a head of speed.
Once he was rolling forward, he pushed up onto the seat and began pedaling. As he picked up speed, he gained confidence and let the world know about it.
“Woo-hoo!” he shouted. Pleased with himself, he took his right hand off the handlebars and waved to the family as they hollered encouragement. Peter learned a difficult lesson. Keep your hands on the wheel, as they say.
Immediately after he let go of the handlebars, the bike lurched to the left toward a parked car. Peter panicked. He pulled his right hand down to correct his course, but he overcompensated. For several seconds, the bicycle turned wildly back and forth as his forearm muscles struggled to keep the front wheel straight. He unconsciously pedaled faster, his mind certain the increased speed would help him regain control.
He forced his body upright and tried not to look down at his feet, as it caused him to lose his balance when he did. With each minor adjustment, the bike was traveling where Peter wanted it to although his speed had picked up considerably. He was afraid to slow down for fear he’d struggle to remain balanced.
At the end of the sidewalk, he bounced hard onto the street as the bike rode over the curb. This caused him to lose control slightly. Then, immediately in front of him, several cars had stalled, forcing him into an immediate ninety-degree turn to head west away from Fairfax. He whipped the handlebars back and forth to avoid more stalled vehicles and a group of people standing in the middle of the road, observing his antics.
Peter finally exhaled. Unknowingly, he hadn’t breathed since the pedals made the first full rotation. He glanced around and shook his head at this crazy notion. How am I supposed to do this for thirteen hundred miles?
After several minutes and a number of miles under his belt, his confidence grew. He remembered to pull up the lightweight gaiter he wore around his neck so his nose and mouth were covered. At first, he found it difficult to breathe. However, until he could put some distance between himself and the fires burning out of control around Washington, he’d make every effort to protect his lungs.
So he was off. He had no idea how many miles he could travel each day. Al claimed to travel about forty miles or more daily until his legs gave out. The incentive to get home to Asia and his kids helped the loving father push his body to knock out another few miles before resting.
There were going to be obstacles along the way, Al had warned. Namely, human obstacles. The biggest challenge for Peter would be traveling near any population center, including small towns. He had a means of transportation as well as duffel bags and backpacks full of gear.
Before he left the apartment, he’d torn out pages 115 and 83 from the Rand McNally Atlas he’d taken from Dick’s Sporting Goods. These pages provided detailed maps of Eastern Virginia and Eastern North Carolina. He kept them shoved in his jacket pocket for easy reference. Naturally, he could make his way to Interstate 95 and travel all the way to Coral Gables in Miami. He was certain he wouldn’t make it ten miles before he’d lost everything to a pack of refugees or was killed in a shoot-out trying to defend what he had.
Instead, he continuously worked his way west out of Fairfax toward Manassas and then started his ride through country roads and fairly desolate highways of Central Virginia. That first day, he experienced the depths of despair of humanity. What he encountered would haunt him the rest of his life.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Tuesday, October 29
Fairfax, Virginia
Because Jackie had led Peter to CVS along woodsy trails and apartment complex sidewalks the night before, he was unaware that the boulevard he was riding on now led him right past the proverbial scene of the crime.
During their mission to obtain the insulin, CVS had been quiet when they first approached. Inside, Peter had been relieved that the store was only inhabited by a few children munching on snack foods. Today, in the daylight, the floodgates had opened. Streams of people entered empty-handed and exited with their arms full of some treasure or another. Peter immediately wondered if the fourth man had died in the dark recesses of the pharmacy and whether any of his fellow looters cared.
Regardless, they were distracted, and only a few noticed him pedaling by. He wound his way through the streets just outside the bedroom community of Centreville. Apartments and neighborhoods were packed together from the historic town all the way to Manassas. Some of the county roads to the east of these communities were not in his atlas, but he used his sense of direction to continue on his way.
When he was a child, Hank had taught him to navigate on the open waters without a compass. Sailors, he’d said to Peter, had traveled the open seas for centuries without fancy GPS devices. They only had a crude compass, a sextant, and a timepiece to travel the world.
Peter chuckled to himself as he methodically pedaled southward. After the electromagnetic pulse emanated outward from the point of impact, GPS devices were rendered worthless. All around him was evidence of the devastating effect an EMP has on electronics. Nothing that relied upon modern technology worked.
He recalled how his father had taught him celestial navigation. For hours at night, he’d studied the stars at all times of the year. He and Jimmy would challenge one another to identify constellations. At first, they relied upon modern technology, namely, their smartphones, to confirm their identifications of the heavens. Then it became easy for the two amateur astronomers. They even ordered a sextant online to navigate old school, as Jimmy called it.
They were able to quickly identify the North Star, which gave them a fairly precise latitude. Using their knowledge of star charts, they could locate and shoot one of the equatorial stars. April and May was their favorite time of the year to stargaze. Just over the crest of the Atlantic Ocean’s waves, the Southern Cross would appear above the southern horizon. One of the smallest recognized constellations, the Southern Cross was an important symbol to many ancient cultures. For sailors, it was a way to identify due south, as the longest bar of the cross-shaped star pattern points to the South Pole.
Peter didn’t have a sextant, and he realized as nightfall approached, he likely wouldn’t have any stars to navigate by for many years. The cloud of ash and soot resulting from the nuclear attacks blocked out the sky completely. Stars. Moon. Sun. They were all blacked out by the smoky haze.
Dismayed, he shook his head and closed his eyes momentarily. Navigation was just one of many things he’d learned from his dad and grandfather about survival. The conversations they’d had with Peter and his sister were never couched in those terms, but their intention was clear. Mostly, it had to do with getting stranded on the water, but the same principles applied.
It was so ingrained in Lacey that she made it a big part of her life between her business and her family’s activities together. For Peter, it se
emed to give him a heightened sense of awareness and the ability to discern when trouble was near and how to react to it quickly. He’d been tested in Abu Dhabi and again in the CVS pharmacy. He’d proved he could kill to avoid being killed. He’d also learned to react to a dangerous situation, such as the mall takeover by the armed gang. He knew it was time to go, allowing him to avoid another life-threatening confrontation.
That night, as darkness set in and the temperatures unexpectedly dropped, Peter began to search for a place to make camp for the night. He hadn’t stopped pedaling all day and was near exhaustion when he came across a brick monument sign marking the entrance to Meadows Farms Golf Course, about ten miles due west of the famed Chancellorsville Battlefield from the time of the American Civil War. The sign proudly claimed that Meadows Farms was the home of the longest golf hole in the U.S., a par six that was eight hundred forty-one yards long. Peter didn’t know anything about golf, but a single hole half a mile long seemed pretty long to him.
He slowly pedaled up the paved entry road toward the farmhouse-style clubhouse with a shiny, red metal roof. The parking lot was empty, as the day of golfing had been long over when the bombs hit Washington, DC. The golf carts were parked in a row, waiting patiently for the golfers to arrive.
Peter eased up to the front entrance of the clubhouse and slowed to a halt. He eased his feet off the pedals and attempted to straddle the bike. His legs immediately tried to buckle, forcing him to hold his body up using the handlebars to keep from crushing his clackers against the frame.
He gingerly raised his left leg and swung it over the bike. He hadn’t stopped riding the entire day, and his body was cramped beyond belief. In that moment, he wasn’t certain he could walk to the white-framed entrance. He laid the bike against a golf cart and retrieved his handgun from the sling backpack. He chambered a round and walked slowly toward the entrance, much like a bowlegged cowboy in an old western movie.
He looked back and forth to check for any signs of life. Then he pressed his nose against the glass and cupped his hands around his eyes to block out the glare put off by the sun setting behind the smoky skies.
Peter expected the clubhouse to be empty. It was not. At the right side of the building was a dining area flanked by a bar on one side and a media wall on the other. A chair was tipped over, and a body lay on the carpeted floor next to it. Peter gripped his pistol a little harder and pressed his back against the taupe-colored stucco wall. His breathing grew more rapid, and his chest was heaving as the adrenaline kicked in.
He moved along the side of the clubhouse and swiftly ran past the dining area toward a small outbuilding that was built like a mini-me of the clubhouse. Its door was flung open, so Peter decided to clear it first.
He raced down the asphalt sidewalk shared with the electric golf carts, choosing speed over silence to catch anyone inside off guard. When he arrived, he looked inside. Even in the waning daylight, he could see it was empty and nothing more than a maintenance shed full of tools commonly found in an auto mechanic’s shop. He turned his attention back to the clubhouse.
The rear entrance to the dining area was pulled closed. He rushed across the grassy back of the building and pressed his back against the wall. With his left hand, he slowly turned the doorknob of the rear entry door. It was unlocked. Peter eased it open and then steadied his nerves. With his pistol leading the way, he stepped inside to the near dark interior of the clubhouse.
The first thing he noticed was the fact it was undisturbed. He’d witnessed stores and gas stations that had been looted throughout his travels out of Fairfax. This facility appeared to have been spared by thieves.
First, he turned to the left to locate the body he’d observed from the front door. The clubhouse had a small grill and bar, the proverbial nineteenth hole, built to serve the golfers after a long day on the links. A couple of dozen square tables surrounded by bent-back chairs were packed into the space, each set up with napkin holders, salt and pepper shakers, and beer coasters. Only one had any sign of use.
Peter slowly approached the body on the floor. His table was stacked with one empty and one half-full bottle of Jim Beam whiskey. Several empty bags of chips were lying on the floor near him. Peter kept his pistol trained on the man’s torso as he kicked his feet to nudge him awake.
“Hey, buddy! Wake up!” he said in a loud whisper.
He nervously glanced around the dining area to see if he’d garnered anyone’s attention. Satisfied nobody else was around, Peter got a closer look at the man, and that was when the stench of his corpse reached his nostrils. He was flat on his back with both hands clutching his chest. The older man might have died of a heart attack, Peter surmised.
He pulled his gaiter over his nose and mouth again as he backed away from the corpse. “What were you doin’ in here, old man?” Peter asked aloud.
He looked around the room to see if anyone else appeared to answer on the dead man’s behalf. When he didn’t get a response, he quickly moved through the entire building to make sure nobody was lying in wait. He was far too exhausted for a shoot-out like the night in the pharmacy.
Satisfied he was alone, he made his way to the front entry doors, unlocked them, and wheeled his bicycle into the clubhouse foyer. After taking a deep breath and exhaling to relieve some tension, he rummaged through the kitchen, looking for anything edible. As he did, he even allowed himself a warm rum and Coke. The ice had melted, and the contents of the freezer reeked worse than the dead man, so he was satisfied with the drink without ice.
Finally, exhaustion set in. He barricaded the doors and windows with dining tables and other pieces of furniture. Then he gathered sweaters from the clubhouse shop to use as bedding. There was an upstairs loft overlooking the nineteenth hole that contained a couple of pool tables and several video poker machines. He created a bed behind the pool tables so he’d have some protection in case he was surprised by intruders in the middle of the night.
Then Peter slept hard. For almost ten hours, his mentally and physically exhausted body got the rest it needed.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Tuesday, October 29
U.S. Route 50
Nevada
“Your kid’s snoring,” said Owen with a chuckle. He kept his eyes forward although he fully expected a response from his wife.
“Just like his father except not as loud,” she said dryly.
“Skinny people don’t snore,” he continued.
“Exactly. You’ve developed a pooch.”
Owen sat a little taller in the driver’s seat of the Bronco. He sucked in his gut for a moment, but as soon as he exhaled, it returned to its normal, relaxed pooch position.
“No,” he said defiantly.
“Yes.” Lacey laughed as she glanced back at her son, who was sleeping soundly after pulling an all-nighter watching over their temporary camp at Echo Lake. “Since you’ve become a Yahoo! big shot, wining and dining and rubbing elbows and such, those rock-solid abs from college turned into a high-paid executive’s pooch.”
Now Owen was laughing. He tried to hold in his stomach to lend the appearance of the solid midsection of his younger years but failed.
“I can get ’em back anytime I want.”
Lacey stared out the passenger-side window and rested her chin on her fist. She’d suddenly grown morose and stopped the playful back and forth. Owen reached across the console and took her hand in his. She forced a smile and made eye contact with him.
“Owen, we were on a roll. You know, as a family. Listen, I get it. I feel like a jerk being upset about losing our comfortable life in Hayward. I loved running Jefferson Outfitters. I was proud of it, you know? And look at what you accomplished.”
Owen nodded. He didn’t say it aloud, but he had been a couple of rungs of the ladder away from senior management at the second-largest web services provider in the world.
“We’re alive,” Owen said softly.
His words summed it up. People had died horrific dea
ths as a result of the nuclear detonations. Those in close proximity to ground zero who weren’t incinerated had succumbed to radiation poisoning or had been consumed by out-of-control fires that raged across the landscape.
They’d slept well the night before. Tucker had patrolled the area surrounding Echo Lake’s SNO-PARK to protect his parents and, eventually, out of boredom and without his parents’ approval, began to break into the locked vehicles parked there. He’d amassed a treasure trove of useful items ranging from survival supplies to tools to clothing.
While they slept, he repacked the vintage Ford and organized the gear to provide more room in the back seat to sleep. By the time his parents woke up that morning, he’d cleared the ashen snow off the windows, topped off the gas tank with the fuel cans they’d discovered at the car pileup, and cleared two tracks for their wheels to pass through the overnight snowfall.
All of his efforts during the night resulted in his passing out in the back seat within minutes of Owen pulling out of the park.
Lacey studied the map as they left. She’d navigated them through county roads and highways to the south of Lake Tahoe to avoid what was likely a large number of stranded tourists at the casino hotels. Thus far, they’d seen no evidence of another operating vehicle, and they’d begun to appreciate how valuable Black & Blue was. They eventually reconnected with U.S. Highway 50 and began their west-to-east course across the central part of the Rockies.
As they traveled through Nevada, they quickly learned why it had been dubbed The Loneliest Road in America by Life magazine in the mid-eighties. U.S. 50 was the backbone of the highway system, running coast-to-coast through the heart of America for thirty-two hundred miles. It traversed the nation’s most unforgiving landscapes, like the Sierra Nevadas and the Appalachian Mountains as well as large desert valleys separated by the majestic mountain ranges of the Rockies.
