Yellowstone: Survival: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller (The Yellowstone Series Book 4)

by Bobby Akart

  Jake and Ashby worked together to do some fuel calculations. Their fuel levels had dropped from its maximum capacity of fifteen hundred gallons to roughly twelve hundred gallons. Although the Grand Banks 60 was capable of a steady cruising speed of twenty-seven knots, they chose to move much slower to maximize their fuel efficiency.

  With the aid of the chartplotter, they determined they could reach Managua, Nicaragua, if they maintained a steady speed of ten knots. However, they were both leery of the banana republics of Central America, especially those that controlled the Pacific shoreline in El Salvador, Nicaragua, and Panama.

  Their ultimate destination was Peru. Of the countries in South America that they considered the safest, including Brazil and Argentina, which had treaties with the U.S., Peru was the most American-friendly on the Pacific Coast. Refueling the tanks in Cabo San Lucas would provide sufficient fuel to make it to the most stable Central American country of Costa Rica. A refuel there would give them an easy sail to Lima, Peru.

  With their course set and the engines adjusted automatically to maintain their speed, they set about getting organized. Jake focused on taking inventory of their supplies—both in the form of weapons he’d brought on board and what was available to them on the yacht.

  Ashby was giddy with excitement, as she’d found a small spiral notebook in the master stateroom that contained the log-in information to the HughesNet satellite network. She got settled on a sofa in the salon, centrally located to where Jake was shuffling through all of the storage compartments of the yacht. As he emptied the cabinets just to the side of the bloodstained carpet, Ashby reported the news of the day.

  “They say more than half of Americans have left their homes and headed for Mexico and Central America. They’re running out of fuel and making their way on foot. Jake, dead bodies are accumulating on the highways, and people are just driving around them or, in several instances, over them.”

  “Desperation and panic,” mumbled Jake as he divided the yacht’s supplies into several piles—food, medical, sanitary, and miscellaneous electronics and other devices.

  Ashby continued. “Hospitals are overwhelmed, so much so that tent triage units are being established in parking lots around the facilities. Face masks have all been sold out or issued to first responders and law enforcement. People are starting to realize that breathing in the ash fallout is like ingesting particles of glass.”

  “You mentioned Toba once,” said Jake. “That was a supervolcano, right? Based upon that eruption, are we gonna find a place that isn’t impacted by the fallout?”

  Ashby set her MacBook aside and talked as Jake continued to shuffle. “Toba, which is ironically on the opposite side of the planet from Yellowstone, erupted seventy-four thousand years ago. Much of the planet was covered with ash, for the most part, and a volcanic winter ensued. Now, I’ve argued that the ash fallout from Toba was not as great as scientists first deduced.”

  “Was it not that large of an eruption?”

  “Oh no, it was a super eruption, one that may have taken place over a longer period of time than Yellowstone. I believe Toba erupted four times in relatively quick succession, but not all at once. And by quick, I mean a hundred years. As a result, the damage to the climate was from volcano-induced acid rain rather than ash fallout.”

  “Are you saying that could be the case here?”

  “No,” replied Ashby. “Yellowstone is a different animal from Toba. Its eruptive cycle will begin to die down soon. Rather than hitting us over a period of time with several smaller eruptions, Yellowstone’s mega-eruption will blast us all at once.”

  “Is that good news or bad news?” asked Jake as he walked past Ashby and approached a tall cabinet door with a six-button numeric lock affixed to the outside. Jake studied the lock for a moment and then examined the cabinet door. Ultimately, he used his own method of opening a door. He pulled out his knife, pounded the tip of the blade into the wood near the lock mechanism, and broke it off. He then reached his fingers into the hole left in the door and found the location of the latch. Once again, using the steel blade of his knife, he pried the door all the way open, revealing the contents.

  “I would say that it’s good news for humanity, at least as far as the recovery process is concerned. For us, in terms of our destination, it certainly helps to be closer to the equator and in a southwesterly direction from Yellowstone. The Earth’s atmosphere will have a better opportunity to help the ash fallout dissipate.”

  Jake stood to the side so Ashby could see inside the cabinet.

  “Great, more guns,” said Ashby sarcastically.

  “Ammo too, which we need,” said Jake. He’d loaded as much ammunition as possible into the Sikorsky when they left Yellowstone. Between the crash and the descent off the mountain to Challis, he’d abandoned much of the heavy ammunition as they carried Dusty to get medical attention.

  Jake began to unload the contents of the weapons locker. Several marine shotguns and an ample number of shells were included. Also, a couple of Remington 1100 shotguns used for skeet shooting were in the cabinet. Two nine-millimeter sidearms rounded out the yacht’s arsenal.

  “The climactic impact has already begun,” continued Ashby. “The ash fallout has extended as far south as Texas and into the southeastern states of Mississippi and Alabama. Trace amounts of fallout have forced airports to close around the country, except in Florida and Maine. The continuous eruption spawned several gigantic umbrella clouds that have pushed ash in a thousand-mile radius, including upwind. I suspect Los Angeles was seeing the impact of the fallout, which led to shutting down their ports to activity.”

  Jake stopped for a moment to wipe the sweat off his brow. He retrieved a bottle of water from the galley and drank it down. “What about temperatures? Is it too early to take readings?”

  “Not in North America,” Ashby replied. “The super eruption spewed vast quantities of sulfur dioxide, which formed a sulfur aerosol in the atmosphere. The resulting cloud formation has already begun to block sunlight and reflect it back into space. Temperatures have dropped, and drought conditions are already being noticed.”

  Jake brought in the last of their weapons and meticulously lined them up, coupling them with the appropriate ammo. He stood with his hands on his hips and made an observation. “Well, the good news is we have enough firepower to fight a small war. The bad news is we can’t eat bullets.”

  “We don’t have much in the way of food, do we?”

  Jake shrugged and sat next to Ashby on the couch. “My guess is Ken Kennedy didn’t come to his yacht to sail around and enjoy a good meal. This was nothing more than a floating love shack for him.”

  “We have a bunch of snack food, and it’s all edible,” said Ashby with a hint of encouragement. “And a never-ending supply of liquor, it appears.”

  “Yeah, there’s that. Listen, Cabo is only two days away at this pace. We’ll travel at night, maybe taking shifts to keep watch.”

  Ashby kissed Jake on the cheek to reassure him. “No worries, Captain Wheeler. We’ll be fine.”

  Chapter 12

  The Pacific Ocean

  Off the coast of Baja California, Mexico

  The Grand Banks 60 held three hundred gallons of fresh water on board. Some vessels of her size came equipped with a marine seawater desalination system. Using reverse osmosis technology, the systems were capable of treating seawater into fresh water for any onboard use. Unfortunately, this yacht’s desalination system had not been installed, and they didn’t want to waste fresh water for anything other than drinking.

  Ashby and Jake took the bloodied towels to the transom and scrubbed them with salt water on the teakwood. Jake located a larger bucket under the master head’s sink, and they used liquid detergent to scrub out the blood the best they could. After another salt rinse, the towels were spread all over the foredeck to dry. They’d be hard and somewhat crusty, but useable in the future.

  Afterwards, Jake wanted to start Ashby’s weap
ons training. He started out by telling her which weapons she would use most often. He chuckled as he began.

  “Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d have to put my weapons training to use. You know, it was part of my job to go with the guys to Santa Rosa for two weeks. The Public Safety Training Center there was designed for law enforcement officers who were on the front line on California’s streets, not glorified highway patrol officers driving the streets of Yellowstone National Park.”

  “Jake, don’t sell yourself short. Even before Yellowstone erupted, the world had become more dangerous. People had become desensitized to the concept of killing. It was prevalent in our entertainment media, from big-screen movies to video games. Regardless of method, people were going to find a way to kill people. Frankly, it’s in our DNA.”

  Jake sighed as he set several weapons on the dining table in the galley. He glanced over at the instrument panel and then through the front windows at the horizon to reaffirm they were on track.

  “Well, I’m glad I did it. We’ve been put in a few different situations, all of which were tense. I hope we don’t have to go through it again, but you never know. I need you as a partner in these scenarios, and like I said, it was unfair of me to stow you away. It didn’t make you safer, but rather, almost got you hurt.”

  Ashby stepped up to him and looked in his eyes. “Yet here I stand, safe and sound. Teach me how I can help keep you safe.”

  “Okay,” Jake said with a nod as he turned his attention to the table. “We have three primary weapons. This is the Mossberg 590 twelve-gauge shotgun. You’ve used a shotgun before, but this one is slightly different. You’ll notice it has a pistol grip attached, like a handgun. It will provide you better stability.”

  Ashby picked it up and pressed it against her shoulder. She kept her finger off the trigger, as Jake had taught her, and he took notice.

  “For today, all of these weapons are empty. Ordinarily, I’d advise you to check before you took a shooting position. We’re gonna conduct some dry-fire training, and you’ll be able to squeeze the trigger and rack another round as if you were in an actual gunfight.”

  Ashby put the shotgun down and pointed to her regular sidearm—a nine-millimeter pistol. “This is the gun I’ve been carrying since Idaho.”

  “Yes, and that practice will continue. We should have them holstered on us at all times, although on the open seas, while we’re paying attention, it’s not necessary.” Jake added emphasis to his statement, as he was still angry with himself for letting his guard down the night before. Had he been on watch, he would have lit up the Cobia and its occupants before they got within a hundred yards of their yacht.

  Ashby pointed at the AR-15 lying across the table. “Finally, I get my own machine gun.”

  “It’s not—” Jake quickly interrupted, but Ashby laughed and held her hand up.

  “I know, I know. I’m just kidding. It sure looks frightening.”

  Jake walked to the helm and retrieved his M16, which lay across the captain’s chair. Once again, he scanned the horizon, a habit now incorporated into his situational awareness in this unusual environment. He set his weapon down next to hers. The M16 was much larger.

  “Yours is a lot longer. Is mine less powerful?”

  “They look similar, but they are different in several aspects. First, they’re both manufactured by Colt, one of the oldest names in the firearms industry, along with Remington. Second, mine is a military-issue M16. It’s fully automatic, which means I can squeeze the trigger and it will fire continuously until the magazine is emptied.”

  “Mine won’t do that?” she asked.

  “No, and I won’t do that either when the time comes. Your AR-15 can be sold legally in stores; my M16 cannot. Your weapon is semiautomatic, which means you must squeeze the trigger to fire each round. Now, one thing your weapon has that most do not is what’s known as a bump stock.”

  Ashby picked up the lightweight rifle and held the butt against her shoulder. “I remember those. Aren’t they illegal?”

  “They can’t be manufactured, but the existing slide stocks already owned, or available for sale, were not.”

  “What’s wrong with them?” asked Ashby.

  “Well, setting the background and the politics aside, the slide stock enables you to hold the weapon firmly against your shoulder and hold the trigger down. As the rifle recoils, the bump stock recoils and forces the trigger back against your finger. This allows your semiautomatic AR-15 to almost mimic the firing speed of my full-auto M16.”

  Ashby set the rifle down and studied everything laid out on the table. “Good. Based on what we’ve been through so far, I’ll take any edge I can get.”

  Jake raised his eyebrows and nodded. “One final thought on the fully automatic capability of my rifle and the simulated nature of yours. When we engage in that initial firefight, our attackers are going to hear my automatic weapon, and the bump stock will emulate the sound as well. Most people don’t have this capability. I firmly believe it will have a deterrent effect on anyone who challenges us.”

  “Automatic fire will back them down?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  Jake took each weapon and showed Ashby the safety aspects of handling a gun. Then he talked about the day’s training regimen, which would include skeet shooting to get Ashby accustomed to hitting a moving target, followed by close-quarters combat.

  For the skeet shooting training, Jake used the Mossberg instead of the Remington 1100 shotguns that had been found in the yacht’s gun cabinet. He wanted Ashby to train with the weapon she would be using in the future, even though it was not meant for skeet.

  They took a quick break for a late lunch of crackers and canned deviled ham. They ate while Ashby practiced loading and unloading her weapons. Before starting the last aspect of their training, close-quarters combat, Jake discussed what had happened during last night’s attack. With the events fresh in their minds, Jake was able to reconstruct for Ashby the details of the attack and why he’d made the decisions he made.

  Because their handgun would always be the most readily available weapon, Jake focused on its use. With her paddle holster firmly in place, Ashby repeatedly drew her pistol until the practice created muscle memory and conditioned her reflexes. If she had to challenge someone or draw to shoot, she could ready her weapon as if it were second nature.

  Next, Jake showed her how to use the laser sights, which were built in to the trigger guard of her sidearm. During this process, she learned trigger control and aim. Using a small porthole window as a target, she drew the weapon and pointed it at the target. Jake taught her how to pull the trigger so the gun made a click with the sights still sitting on its point of aim. If the sights moved off their target before the click, she missed and would have to adjust her trigger pressure.

  To finish the day, Jake and Ashby re-created the scene from last night. They took turns positioning themselves where Jake and their attackers had been located. They discussed what they would’ve done differently.

  Finally, they went through the entire scenario again, assuming that Ashby was assisting as part of a team. The outcome would’ve been the same, Ashby had remarked, but less messy inside the yacht.

  It had been a long day, and the two of them were ready to relax. They gathered up the dried towels from the foredeck and stored them away. Ashby fixed them both a cocktail, and the two of them convened on the sky bridge to watch another sunset just as they passed Ensenada, Mexico, to their east.

  It was the first day they’d spent together that didn’t involve interacting with another human being. It was nice, but short-lived.

  Chapter 13

  The Pacific Ocean

  Off the coast of Baja California

  Ashby volunteered to take the night shift, as Jake was typically an early to bed, early to rise kinda guy. He’d often lamented, however, that the practice had made him neither wealthy nor wise.

  Ashby was selfishly glad to be alone with h
er thoughts. Since the moment their helicopter had lifted off from Grant Village at Yellowstone, they’d been on a whirlwind run for their life. Now they were no longer being chased by would-be killers, whether human or volcanic.

  She began to run the scientific scenarios through her head and continued to reach the same conclusion—the lower latitudes, between the tropics, gave them a fighting chance to survive until the proverbial dust settled. Peru was certainly a good choice, but frankly anything near the equator would be ideal.

  Her mind then began to focus on their next stop, Cabo San Lucas, located at the southernmost end of Baja California, was a place with a reputation for tourism and partiers. Over the previous decade, the Mexican government had managed to control crime in the popular tourist destinations such as the Yucatan Peninsula and Baja California, providing a tourist destination free of drugs and petty crimes.

  The northern part of the country along the U.S. border was where the cartel activity was heaviest. Led by the importation of illegal drugs into America, oftentimes coupled with human trafficking, the cartels had overwhelmed law enforcement along the Mexican side of the border.

  All in all, Ashby considered Baja California a safe place for them to refuel and purchase some provisions. Traveling farther south into Central America provided them fewer options.

  With Jake sound asleep below deck, Ashby settled into the bench seat on the sky bridge and wrapped herself in a blanket to stave off the chill of the open ocean. She turned on the yacht’s radio and began to scan channels, hoping to catch some radio chatter from Mexico or Southern California.

  She opened her laptop and accessed the internet via the HughesNet satellite. She researched the marina at Cabo San Lucas and was impressed. Marina Cabo San Lucas was much larger than the one at Monterey Bay, and the images of the mega yachts docked there put the sixty-foot My Wet Dream to shame.