by Bobby Akart
Jake and Ashby had discussed the evening’s activities before Miguel arrived. They both looked at the potential relationship between the groups as two business entities merging with one another. The partnership had to be equal in scope and clearly defined—not unlike any new business relationship. If both parties brought something to the table, then the partnership could work for so long as one side couldn’t overpower and drive out the other.
Overall, the initial conversation was cordial, ultimately turning to what Jake and Ashby had experienced. With only limited news received via a world band shortwave radio, Miguel was surprised at the levels of devastation being experienced in North America. He asked Ashby a logical question as they neared his village.
“This fallout of which you speak,” Miguel began, “will it reach our island?”
“Yes, to an extent. The minute particles will fill the atmosphere around the globe. I don’t expect it will impact the sea life in this area or your ability to grow food. The constant breeze coupled with the rainfall you receive on the northern side of the island will help. It will be important, however, to monitor the respiratory systems of your elderly and children.”
Jake glanced back at Ashby as she made the statement. He immediately thought of the limited number of N-95 masks they had and whether they should share them. When they were gone, they were gone. If the fallout worsened and became a potential threat for years to come, the two of them would need all they had. He made a mental note to discuss it with her later.
“Do you have experience in the medical field, as well?” Miguel asked.
“No, but I’m familiar with the telltale signs of respiratory distress due to ash fallout. I’d be glad to help you.”
Jake allowed himself a slight smile. Ashby was endearing herself to Miguel while also reminding him of their importance to this potential new partnership. Very smart.
Before they arrived, Jake tried to subtly remind Miguel of another weakness his group might have. “Miguel, have your men had any formal weapons training?”
“None at all. As you probably know, Mexico’s gun laws are very strict, much like the United Kingdom and Australia. My people are block layers and carpenters, not police. The navy offered us the shotguns because they require less accuracy. With the limited number of shells provided, there is no opportunity to practice.”
Jake had an opening to offer his expertise. “I can teach them with a dry-fire technique. They can learn basic gun-handling skills and shooting, but without the guns loaded. I taught Ashby this way and she is an excellent shot.”
Ashby looked down and smiled. As she did, the bumpy trail opened up into a clearing overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The view of the lush landscape and over the top of the cliffs was incredible.
“Look at the fields!” exclaimed Ashby. “Every foot is covered with vegetables.”
Miguel continued toward the village and described the hillside covered with crops for his visitors. Miguel smiled. “Oh, yes. In addition to being masons and carpenters, we are farmers. It is a part of our culture to plant, grow, harvest, and preserve our foods.”
“What are you growing here?” asked Jake.
“We have all the staples that we grow on the mainland—corn, sugarcane, tomatoes, peppers, beans, avocados, and leafy vegetables. We have also included tropical fruits like bananas, mangos, kiwis, lemons, and limes. And, of course, coffee. There is room to grow more if seeds were available.”
Jake raised his eyebrows and smiled as he thought of the wide variety of heirloom seeds he’d found on the winery raid that night. Miguel and the villagers might have to start small, but over time, with the heirloom seeds being reused, the agricultural aspect of Isla Socorro could expand.
The road wound its way toward the water’s edge, and the homes began to appear. Nestled under tall palm trees were block and stone structures resembling the modest bungalows built for the naval base. These houses all contained metal roofs, open-air shutter windows, and were evenly spaced on the beach. Wooden boats painted in bright, vibrant colors were scattered about the beach in front of the houses.
Miguel stopped short of entering the village so Jake and Ashby could take in the view. “We built our village at Playa Blanca on the west side of the island for two reasons. The rainfall and gently sloped hills are ideal for growing. The cove we chose is shielded from the hurricanes and tropical weather that approach Isla Socorro from the mainland. We do not receive the fierce, brutal waves during the storms. The island shields us from the winds, and the water remains calm.”
Miguel continued. “We have a traditional Mexican hierarchy here. The women tend to the children, take care of the home, and preserve the food. The men fish and work the fields. Our people are not immune to hard work, and the balance is a good one. You Americans have a saying, I’m told. Living on island time. Am I correct?”
Ashby was quick to answer. “Yes. My friend used to say no rush, no worries.” Ashby wiped a tear from her eye as she thought of Dusty.
“We agree with that. We move slowly here. Mainly because there is no place to go and there is no way to get there in a hurry.”
The group laughed as Miguel continued down the slope to the beach. When he arrived in the middle of the village, he shut off the engine, allowing Jake and Ashby to soak it in. Everyone in the village had come out to greet them. Kids were playing on the beach. Women were carrying trays of food to wooden tables set up on bamboo sawhorses. The few remaining men stood in the middle, smiling and waving to the visitors.
It warmed their hearts and helped them make their decision. Despite their different cultures and backgrounds, both groups had something to offer one another. They needed to find a way to work together.
Chapter 42
The Pacific Ocean
Aboard the Nautilus Under Sea
In a post-apocalyptic world, opportunists are everywhere. They’re drawn to one another like magnets, finding common ground and shared purposes. The situations and scenarios may vary, but the human trait of taking advantage of one man’s travails often results in evil binding with evil. Such was the case on the liveaboard dive boats anchored off Isla Socorro.
Walter Sota was a drifter with several outstanding warrants for fraud and embezzlement pending against him in the United States. When he quit the company that relied upon him to handle their internet technology issues for many years, taking over a hundred thousand dollars out of their bank accounts in the process, he went on the lam as his crime was discovered.
Initially, Sota fled for the raucous, hedonistic confines of Tijuana, Mexico, where he indulged in prostitutes and illegal drugs. One morning, hungover from a bottle of cheap mezcal and several injections of methamphetamine, Sota realized he’d burned through his ill-gotten gains. He was broke and an addict.
To feed his fix, he turned to petty crime, robbing young tourists who spilled into Tijuana to take advantage of the younger drinking age and lax law enforcement. The Mexican government had enough trouble battling the drug cartels. They couldn’t act as the babysitter to American teenagers looking to grow up too fast.
During the next several months, Sota became an expert in running cons on his fellow Americans. Unsuspecting teens, looking to score drugs or cheap sex, would often follow Sota into darkened corners of Tijuana—their hopes high, but their awareness low.
Using an inexpensive BB pistol, which, in the dark, looked very much like a 1911-style handgun, Sota stole cash and jewelry and occasionally raped inebriated young girls.
As time passed, Sota decided to up his game by traveling to Cabo San Lucas, located directly down the Baja California peninsula from Tijuana. In Cabo, the marks were not as easy, but they had more money.
However, frequently wasted from drugs and alcohol, he was unable to con the more sophisticated tourists in Cabo, who arrived by yachts and planes. The inability to continue his life as a petty criminal became a temporary blessing for Sota. He cleaned up his act, but not by choice. The cost of drugs was higher in Cabo
San Lucas, and the law enforcement community was stricter on crooks like him.
So he took a job aboard the Nautilus Under Sea, a Cabo-based liveaboard dive boat. While living in Florida, Sota had taken up diving and became PADI-certified in several levels of experience.
One day, he met a divemaster who invited him to join the crew of the Nautilus. It was one of several liveaboards operated by the company, but as the smallest, it frequently traveled to the closest dive location—Isla Socorro.
By this time, Sota had kicked his drug habit, but his taste for tequila, marijuana, and young girls remained. All of the above were plentiful on the liveaboards. It was a close-knit community of nine ships that traveled the Revillagigedo Islands on regular, weekly dive trips, hauling tourists from all over the world. Because the Nautilus was an older ship, modified from a research vessel, and had a smaller capacity than the others, it was typically priced less per passenger. This made it popular with college kids who were looking to dive the islands at a bargain price.
There were three ships anchored off the southwestern coast of Isla Socorro the day Yellowstone erupted. The most elegant of the three, My Cassiopeia, returned to port immediately, taking some of the divers off the Nautilus and the Quino with them. Likewise, the younger, more adventurous divers from the Cassiopeia took up the generous offer to remain behind on the Nautilus and the Quino. You know, to ride out the storm.
Unfortunately, the storm was just beginning, and it wasn’t due to Yellowstone. The crews of the Quino and Nautilus were friends outside of their workplace. The two groups frequented the same bars and after-hours clubs of Cabo. They shared the same women and purchased drugs from the same dealer.
After two weeks of partying and debauchery with their passengers, the unspoken dividing line between crew and passengers was obliterated. Soon, matters got out of control and violence took over the alcohol-infused parties.
Walter Sota was not the only criminal on board the two ships. In fact, most of the crews had criminal pasts, which included violence, gun crimes, and sexual assaults. Their old ways eventually rose to the surface and the passengers were ill-equipped to defend themselves.
The news from Cabo that the Mexican government was beginning to expel ex-pats concerned the crew members, the vast majority of whom were Americans and Europeans. They knew they couldn’t return, only to be sent packing or jailed. They decided to take their chances on the ocean.
But the food began to run out, and the number of mouths to feed needed to be reduced. Quietly, one by one, passengers began to disappear. Some died at the hands of their divemasters, who continued to take them underwater for entertainment. Others ostensibly fell overboard during the drunken gatherings at night. Even elderly members of the crew were set adrift, with their throats slit, when they protested the activities of their younger counterparts.
The lawlessness of the mainland had reared its ugly head at sea, and Sota and his companions were ready to expand their territory by visiting Isla Socorro now that the Mexican Navy had left.
It had been two days since the three Italians on the crew had volunteered to go ashore and report back their findings. When Sota saw them passing around the Sambuca that morning before they left, he knew they would be gone for a while.
After the first night, he suspected the men had gotten drunk and slept it off. Now that the sun had set on another day, he assumed the Italians had found food, alcohol, and perhaps some of the young girls who lived in the village.
Sota became angry that he and his buddies were being cut out of the festivities by the Europeans. As they drank that night and passed around the young college girl from Iowa State, Sota vowed to lead an armed team onto Isla Socorro to find out what was going on.
He didn’t care about the Italians. He might just kill them for taking advantage of the bounty on the island, if any. Sota was bored and he was in the mood for action. Tomorrow, he’d get it.
PART FOUR
Isla Socorro, a new life
Chapter 43
The Pacific Ocean
Isla Socorro
The next morning, Jake and Ashby awoke early, full of excitement. They’d thoroughly enjoyed their evening at the village. They were warmly welcomed, and both agreed that they were one hundred percent comfortable working with Miguel. This morning, their plan was to cross the island on foot to retrieve the yacht and bring it around to the naval dock. Miguel provided them a suggested route, one that would lend a surprise along the way for Ashby.
During their conversation with Miguel the night before, they agreed that the compound needed to be guarded twenty-four hours a day. Jake and Ashby agreed to take the night shift, which ran from dusk to dawn. Miguel would rotate his men back and forth during the day, using the pickup for transportation. Once his men arrived in the morning, Jake and Ashby were free to explore the island and take care of the yacht.
Jake led Ashby up the hill past the last of the newly constructed bungalows until he found the elevated pipeline stretching northward up the hill. “Miguel said to follow the pipeline until it ends. That’s where we’ll find our first point of interest. Then, he said to go due north by following a well-worn path that runs parallel to the runway. That’s where your surprise awaits.”
“What do you think he’s talking about?” asked Ashby as she lengthened her stride and moved past Jake. She’d taken the second shift and was still wide awake with the assistance of several cups of coffee.
“I don’t know. He was kind of mysterious about it, but in a humorous way.”
“He said the pipeline ends about two miles from here. Let’s go.”
Jake playfully cursed Ashby under his breath. She had always been more fit than he was. Her job took her around the world to high elevations that required a significant hike to reach. As a result, her legs were strong and her stamina was good. Once Ashby adapted to a new climate, she was raring to go.
After a forty-minute hike uphill, they reached the end of the pipeline and the source of their fresh water.
“Wow, Jake. This is incredible. Check them out!”
They stood in front of a series of grottos tucked into the face of the mountain. Covered with thick, tropical foliage, it would have been easy to walk past them had it not been for the pipe leading inside the largest of the grottos.
The unusual geologic formation consisted of cavernous tunnels created over many years of erosion. Over time, cracks had formed in the rock, which allowed rainwater flowing down the volcanic mountain to enter the caves. Kept cool and shielded from the algae-inducing sunlight, the water remained fresh enough to drink.
They pulled out their flashlights and made their way into the cave. The sound of dripping water could be heard, although the surface of the pond was perfectly still. Jake used his light to inspect the ceiling of the cave. He was pleased to find no evidence of bats.
Then he studied the drainpipe, which was used, along with gravity, to send water down to the compound. It consisted of two sections. The first was a screen designed to keep out larger debris. He stood on a ledge and knelt so he could flash his light inside the pipe. He saw a second screen, a fine mesh, which filtered out smaller particulates.
“Somewhere along this pipeline, or maybe in the water-storage container at the compound, there must be a filtration and purification system of some type.”
“Charcoal filters?” asked Ashby.
“Most likely. That means they need to be changed periodically. We’ll need to locate them and see if there’s a logbook giving us a schedule.”
The two backed out of the grotto and resumed their trek through the jungle. As they followed the trail, the foliage got thicker, so Jake took the lead. Using a machete he’d found in the storage lockers yesterday afternoon, he cut away at the low-lying plants and palm trees.
He also kept a vigilant eye out for snakes. They had already come across blue lizards, an iguana-looking lizard with a bright blue hue. They scampered across the trail as Jake plowed through the overgrowth.
“Hey, there’s a clearing up ahead!” exclaimed Jake as he began to beat back the tropical leaves with vigor. Within a minute, they stepped into the bright sun and stared at the nondescript white block building with several antennas affixed to the top of its roof. Several smaller structures, resembling beehives with their white clapboard construction and flat black roofs, were scattered about the clearing.
“Is this supposed to be my surprise?” asked a dejected Ashby.
“I guess so. He must have a reason for saying that. Let’s go see.”
Ashby led the way to the front of the building and let out a, “Hell yeah,” followed by, “Home sweet home!”
A plaque on the building read Global Volcanism Program, HA06, Socorro Island. Ashby tried the door handle, but it was locked. There was a numbered, mechanical keylock attached to the bolt lock, which required a code to be inserted.
She scratched her head and then turned to Jake. “Please break in for me.”
“Do I look like a criminal? Some kind of burglar?”
Ashby pouted and then turned toward the door. She pulled the charging handle on her AR-15 and pointed the barrel at the door lock.
“Okay! Okay!” Jake shouted and moved to her side. “I was just kidding.”
Ashby began to laugh. “So was I, sort of.”
Jake had become an expert at popping locks with his knife, and within seconds, it was open. He turned on the lights, which were powered by a solar array on the metal roof.
“What is this place?” he asked as he wandered around the room, looking at whiteboards and several maps.
Ashby settled into a chair at a computer and explained, “Years ago, the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History created this program to monitor volcanoes around the world that had erupted in the last ten thousand years. That may seem like a long time, but in relation to the age of our planet, it’s a mere millisecond.”