Occasionally, when they were lucky, they would encounter a deer, which would provide meat for by a while. They smoked what they couldn’t eat at a single sitting to preserve it for a later time. Along the seashore, they feasted on clams, fish and crabs…and so it had gone for the last year-and-a-half. Traveling along the beach was dangerous so they moved inland after a while.
None of them appeared to be undernourished; they were all slim in appearance.
Randy was a Ranger-qualified Army veteran and could handle most situations that arose, and, there had been more than a few scary incidents during the last year-and-a-half. He trained his wife and two children to survive in an outdoor existence. They had become competent foragers and wild woods survivalists.
Brandy was twelve and Mitchell was almost nine. Shirley was thirty-four and Randy had just turned thirty-five. He and Shirley had been married for fourteen years. Their stories were intense and interesting. In the final analysis they had struggled for the last year-and-a-half with hunger and suffered from the outdoor elements until they learned how to deal with it all properly. That took them some time, but Randy was a patient teacher and he and his family endured it together. Some of the duties and labor fell from Randy’s shoulders onto those of his helpers as they became more confident with their newly learned skills; over the months he trained them patiently.
Randy appeared a formidable foe. He was six-feet tall and weighed about a hundred-sixty pounds. His long, sandy colored hair fell into his eyes and his lean frame was very muscular. He was quick to smile and appreciated a joke as much as the next person.
Shirley was five-feet-five and probably weighed a hundred pounds. Her long black hair was in striking contrast with her pale complexion. She moved with the grace of a dancer. She was not only keenly alert to what was going on around her; she also seemed to have a highly honed intelligence level which simply emanated from her. Her perfect teeth accented her glowing smile and she had dimples on both cheeks. She was very attractive and much younger in appearance than her actual age. There were small wrinkles in the corners of her eyes that betrayed her youthful appearance if she were to be examined closely enough, which men were prone to do, because she was beautiful. Even women were caught in a stare by her beauty.
Brandy exuded excitement at her new-found home and the people around her. Her hair matched her mother’s and if beautiful is an appropriate word to describe a twelve-year-old girl, that was Brandy.
She looked amazingly like her mother. She even moved like her when she walked, and her mannerisms were identical. It was like watching a smaller version of Shirley. She was about five-feet tall and probably weighed around sixty or seventy pounds. She smiled a lot, showing perfect teeth just like her mother’s. Inquisitive and quick to pick up what people around her were discussing readily; she was intellectually mature beyond her chronological age.
Mitchell was in contrast to his family. He was a stocky lad who sported a deep tan from continual sun exposure. He probably weighed as much as his sister and his long, white blonde hair hung down around his shoulders. He was going to be a big man eventually by the looks of him. His dad always insisted, in a joking way, that he was a result of a visit from the cable guy.
Shirley didn’t think it was funny but shrugged her shoulders on occasions when the subject came up. She knew he was a dead ringer for her grandfather, who was Norwegian. Mitchell was quiet but paid attention to all that was said.
They were a tight family and they depended heavily on each other. They were going to be a valuable addition to the retreat.
Dr. Dan looked at the new Avalon members,
“What we’d like to do with you folks is, if you don’t have any objections, keep you here at the retreat until we can find a spot where you can be of the most use for all of us and yourselves. We have a small cabin available where you can live until then.
“You can take over a couple of the hotel rooms until the cabin is cleaned up and presentable. We’ll take care of that first thing in the morning. In the meantime, please consider yourselves welcome here at our little community called Avalon. Breakfast is served from six AM until eight AM. We’ll find jobs for all of you in the next day or two and see how that goes. Any questions?”
The family looked at one another in amazement and smiled shaking their heads. When no one said anything, they were shown to their rooms.
Chapter 6
A journey south
Eric’s group, led by sergeant Woodall, continued west and south until they intersected with I-5. They would convoy down the freeway until they reached Portland. Whenever the convoy strayed from the freeway, they found more carnage and mayhem. Dead bodies lay on sidewalks, roads, and in and around abandoned buildings. It was a nightmare scenario. Much like an old scary “B” movie.
After arriving at Fort Lewis and finding what was left of it from a hydrogen tipped missile strike Captain Gatlin and the lieutenant decided to split up to cover more territory. The captain continued toward the coast and Lieutenant Perkins was to maintain a trek toward Tacoma and north if it was feasible. That left the sergeant and Eric Bell’s people to continue down I-5 toward Portland. The plan was to stay in touch, report what they encountered, and all of them would meet up later at a location to be determined. They agreed to stay in touch by radio. Once they all split up and headed toward their destinations not another radio transmission was heard again. It was strange. The radioman reported to the others several times a day but not one single time was there an answer.
The flies were horrendous. Rats openly fed on the corpses. Emboldened by the feasting, they made no effort to escape from approaching vehicles or men. The stink of the dead was overpowering and nauseating. Insects either flew or crawled everywhere.
Many of the soldiers or Marines who smoked filtered cigarettes broke the filters off and stuck them in their nostrils to help mask the terrible odor of the dead bodies and then breathed through their mouths. Some of them put handkerchiefs over their faces to keep flies from invading their mouths. On the freeway the bodies were scattered. Not all of the cars had bodies in them; some were simply abandoned.
Each time they left the freeway to investigate, they all quickly became anxious to get back to the convoy to simply get away from the terrible scene that repeated itself everywhere.
“These pit stops are depressing.”
Eric said it to nobody in particular.
“Yes, they are.”
It was Sergeant Woodall.
“It makes me wonder where everyone is.”
“I suppose most people took off when they realized the Russians were invading from Canada. You know, it’s only about a hundred-fifty miles from where we are,”
Sergeant Woodall looked around vacantly at all the abandoned cars on the freeway. He lit up a cigarette, inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs and held it before exhaling it. Ordinarily there would be people on both sides of the freeway coming and going in their vehicles. Today, as they made their way down the artery, it was deserted, very surreal. He looked around and obviously was thinking about something but didn’t say anything; he just stared off into the treed areas off the side of the highway and continued to smoke. In a few moments he flicked the butt away and began walking toward his truck.
“Let’s hit it troops.”
◆◆◆
The travel down I-5 was slow. The trip would normally take two-and-a-half hours from Fort Lewis to Portland. Today it would probably take them a full day, perhaps longer. So, after a few hours they took an exit at a rest stop to camp for the night. Most of the men were hungry and ate their rations eagerly. A couple of men harvested some scrap wood from the nearby forested area behind the rest stop and built a nice campfire. The men gathered around it.
One of the soldiers took a harmonica out of his pocket and softly played a haunting melody.
Sergeant Woodall addressed the men.
“I’m hoping we’ll see something soon. This lack of anyone anywhere is kinda spooky. I can’t e
ver remember seeing anything like this…”
A shot suddenly came out of nowhere, startling everyone, and Sergeant Woodall fell to the ground without finishing his sentence. He was dead. The bullet entered his head and exited the other side. He had been sitting next to Eric and brain matter splattered all over the side of Eric’s face, neck and uniform. Those sitting around jumped up and Eric yelled,
“Get away from the fire!”
“Over there!”
A soldier pointed to a wooded area nearby. They spread out to find the shooter. No one was found after a search, and no more shots were fired. That was the second time any of them had an encounter with another living being since they left the mountain climbing camp. There were survivors out there after all and they were dangerous. A perimeter guard was posted and after they buried Sergeant Woodall’s body in a makeshift grave, the rest of the soldiers and Marines slept uneasy that night in preparation for the next day when they would roll into Portland, Oregon. During the night several of their group disappeared and were never seen again. They had deserted.
The death of Sergeant Woodall left Eric in charge of the group. With his spotter Tim at his side they decided to gather everyone together.
“Gather around boys so we can talk. I want to say a few things and I want your input.”
Tim approached Mike, he was walking toward Eric, although he didn’t say anything. Eric could see there was a question on his lips. He stopped a few feet away and said,
“Eric, we gotta do something about these people deserting. We can’t make this trip by ourselves. There are going to be times, I’m thinking, when we’re going to need everybody to defend ourselves if there are civilians out there armed and ready to take us on. I think we could be perceived as a target of opportunity for our weapons and ammo if nothing else. Any ideas about what we can do to keep these people from deserting?”
Eric didn’t offer an answer; he turned to the rest of the group,
“Everybody listen to me, we’re in a bad spot, and we have to stick together. I know you boys from the Army are tight, but I’m just wondering, are you, or can you be as tight as us Marines?”
A buck sergeant stepped up, he looked to be a little older than the rest of them, and he had an air about him that basically telegraphed he was a savvy individual.
“Sergeant Bell you have my word, I’ve got your back. And if any of these slackers decide they want to desert while I’m part of this group, I promise you…”
He looked over at the other men gathering around and with a deliberate and stern gaze looked each one in the face, individually, as his eyes scanned from one face to another,
“…I’ll shoot the son of a bitch myself. We’re in this together, we’re a team, and we have to watch each other’s backs. It is who we are, and by God we better remember that. You’re in charge Sergeant Bell and I’ll follow your orders and these sons of bitches will too or we’ll leave them for the rats to feed off of.
“Okay, listen up. We all are aware we need to nip this desertion thing in the bud. We have a mission to complete and I intend on doing it to the best of my ability. We need each other, I need you. We are still active duty military and we need to act accordingly. Please don’t make us have to hunt you down. But, if we do, I promise you, we won’t stop until we find you!”
There was silence. Eric continued,
“I agree with the sergeant here, we’ve got to stick together, we need everyone we have. I suppose we could go after each person individually if someone decides they want to cut out, and we could hunt them down, and yes, we could shoot the bastards on the spot, but that’s not exactly what I call teamwork. All you boys have to understand, we’re in this together we have a better chance of surviving if we stick together rather than trying to take off on your own. I don’t know about all you boys but I’m a long way from home, and the only friends I have is you guys. What do you say we stick together and head to Portland like we are supposed to? None of us knows what’s ahead; we just know what we’ve left behind. That has been ugly to say the least. You all know we haven’t heard a thing from the captain or the lieutenant and that is not good, the way I see it. So, in reality all we have is each other.”
Nobody said anything, they just stared at Eric and Tim and the sergeant, some looked at the ground, but each one of them knew that what Eric just said was true. There was no threat implied, he just stated the fact, they were in this together, and it was all of them against whatever was out there against them. Or whatever was out there to prevent them from continuing on down this godforsaken freeway of dead people.
“Okay boys let’s gather up all of our stuff and head for Portland, let’s not group up too tight, spread out a little bit. If someone is going to take a potshot at us or toss a grenade, or whatever, most of us may stay lucky and apart.”
◆◆◆
The next day they ate in silence. Each man captured by his own thoughts. This wasn’t an adventure, it was the beginning of a trial of events that none of them had much control over. The only thing they could do was continue toward Portland, and most of all, stick together. Eric was the senior enlisted man when Sergeant Woodall died, and took charge of the group immediately.
Eric sat down and ate with the men and no one said a word. They tried the radio for the lieutenant and the captain but never received a reply, only static.
“Patrol Two, do you read?”
“Patrol One, do you read?”
“This is Patrol Three calling, do you read?”
There was no answer, even after calling several more times.
It was damp and chilly, but sunshine was breaking through the thick fog with the promise of warmer weather. They neared an exit just off the freeway before coming to the river that led to the west. They could see the occasional road snake up the hills from the freeway. Eric stuck his body out of the lead vehicle window in which he was riding, waving his arm around over his head and pointed to the exit, the convoy exited the freeway and headed to the top of the hill.
Eric believed once reaching the top of the hill he would be able to look across the river and observe the condition of Portland city limits. He hoped he could see what was ahead before they crossed the river. When they stopped, he climbed on top of the Humvee to see what he could see, unfortunately, he needed more height, and so they proceeded to a nearby barn, where he climbed up to the roof to have a better view across the Columbia River.
It was a welcome stop for most of the group. Most of them relieved themselves or had a smoke. Although it was still foggy, Eric could see mass destruction over portions of the city from this vantage point, it appeared the damage was extensive. It was similar to the destruction he saw at Fort Lewis. Portland had been nuked. What he saw was a silent reminder of those people who died suddenly and in huge numbers.
It was a tomb.
“Looks pretty grim over there,”
Tim was on top of the barn with Eric; he was solemn in his tone.
He held a spotting scope up to his eye,
“Man, I’ve never seen anything like this outside of the movies. Just looking at the twisted wreck that was once a city is depressing. What I wouldn’t give to have some of the people who did this in my scope!”
They decided not to risk radiation exposure and went back to the freeway where Eric addressed the soldiers and Marines.
“Men, Portland was bombed. I have my fingers crossed we can get across one of the bridges. They still appear to be intact over the Columbia. We have a few more miles to go before we reach the river. The Columbia River is a big and very deep body of water. If we can’t find a bridge intact, we are going to have to abandon our vehicles. Hopefully, we’ll be able to find a few boats if we have to begin hoofing it so we can transport us and our equipment across to the other side if we can’t drive. At this point I’m hoping we don’t have to abandon our vehicles; I’d sure hate to have to do that. With a little luck we can find a bridge that’s intact. We need to keep the use of the vehicles we have
, as long as we have diesel. Does anyone have anything to say before we shove off again?”
No one said anything.
“Let’s do it and hope for the best.”
He said, sounding more convinced than he really was.
They all got back into their vehicles.
When they reached the river, they found the bridge intact and were thankful; the convoy was able to cross, stopping many times to clear abandoned vehicles out of the way before they could continue on. They also looked-for diesel-powered vehicles and syphoned the diesel out of the tanks for their own trucks. This would give them some additional mileage. The bridge was several miles to the east of Portland. After crossing the river, they continued south toward Salem, Oregon and then proceeded to the ocean shore. From the beach they would swing south, then follow along the coastline toward California.
◆◆◆
They hoped to catch crabs and fish. With a little luck they could eat their fill of the ocean’s bounty along the way. It seemed like a good enough plan, considering they needed to conserve their rations. Here in the Pacific Northwest, water wasn’t a problem because of the abundant rainfall. But it would become drier, and water would become scarcer as they pushed farther south. It’s no secret California is fairly dry most of the year.
All along the journey on old Highway 101, they came to homes, businesses, schools, fire stations, restaurants, grocery stores, and gas stations that fronted the ocean. All had been looted. There were plenty of dead people and animals, but they didn’t see anyone or anything alive. Occasionally they would pull off to the side of the road and explore the area; odd as it seemed, there just wasn’t anyone anywhere to be found. They were guessing, of course, but the general consensus was that the people had all fled inland and were in hiding or were dead.
Avalon- The Construction Page 6