Apocalypse Trails: Episode 2

by Joe Nobody

  Jack’s lack of conditioning had been a worry since he’d started planning his journey. From the pack’s surprising weight to his obvious lack of recent cycling experience, he had pined for more time to train and build his endurance. That just wasn’t in the cards.

  No, he would take his time and be cautious about how much he asked of his body. “You’ll be ready for the Tour de France in a few weeks,” he quipped. “No need to rush it.”

  Another few miles passed, the absence of any need to dodge relics on the roadway and the thinning metropolitan density allowing Jack to make good time. Still, he was growing fatigued and decided it was a good time to start scouting for shelter. It would be his first attempt at setting up camp, and he fully expected a learning curve.

  The area of rural California he now traveled was a result of recent expansion, part of the ever-widening urban sprawl that most American interstates experienced. Still, the exit ramps were growing scarcer, the buildings newer and far less compact.

  A large, green, overhead sign announced the next cross street was half a mile away. Jack could read a fast food restaurant’s sign poking through the fog, the outline of a small strip mall visible through the ash. “Now or never,” he whispered through the cloth covering his face.

  He stopped at the top of the down-ramp, eyeing the intersection and feeder lanes below. There were no tracks in the ash and only three pumice-covered vehicles at the junction.

  Deciding it was better to be safe than sorry, Jack pushed down the kickstand and hefted his rifle. He strode toward the westbound lanes so he could scout the far side of the freeway.

  There he found the scene was completely different. The prerequisite corner gas station had burned, two or three dozen cars caught in the blaze and follow-on explosion. None of the buildings on this side of the interstate had retained their windows, the glass panes probably victims of the petrol-induced blast wave. There was even a small crater where the pump island had been located.

  Two blocks away, another charred structure stood as evidence of social unrest. The large advertisement at the top of a pole told the commander that it had been a national drug store chain. The parking lot was overflowing, just like the grocery store by the base.

  Shaking his head, Jack returned to his bike. “I guess I know which side of the tracks you’ll be sleeping on tonight,” he mumbled.

  His ass was sore from the bike’s saddle, his legs appreciating being able to walk rather than pedal. Jack decided to push his wheels down to the strip mall and find a nice cozy shelter for the approaching darkness.

  He soon discovered that the shopping center wasn’t completely finished. Signs adorned the windows, offering retail space for lease. Brushing away a thick coating of dust, he found the inside barren, the walls consisting of naked concrete block.

  At first, the empty spaces seemed attractive. No one wandering through the area would have any reason to search the newly constructed buildings. He could spend the night undisturbed.

  The problem, however, was that he would be completely exposed to anyone who did happen to peer inside the large, picture windows. There were no back rooms, no shelves to conceal his presence. Jack needed debris, or looter’s rubble, in order to hide.

  He continued pushing the bike, heading toward the more-established cross street. The fast food restaurant had been completely ransacked, its brightly colored tables and chairs strewn throughout the seating area. Someone had flung a cash register through the front glass. The freezer doors stood wide open, empty cardboard boxes and paper debris scattered throughout the floor. There were two dead rats visible, the rodents’ rotting bodies making the entire facility unpalatable. Jack continued walking.

  The commander found himself paying attention to his tracks. The ash coating was thinner here, windblown and streaked. He rolled the cycle across bare pavement whenever possible, trying to hide any sign of his passing. It was a small thing, but he needed every advantage.

  Confident that the far side of the overpass would provide additional pages to the photo album of gruesome images already embedded in his memory, Jack turned away from the big road. There wasn’t a town to speak of, no houses visible in the immediate vicinity. It was just another intersection along a major artery, commerce and free enterprise springing up to service the weary traveler.

  He passed a sit-down café but kept on going. Places that once provided food had already been crossed off his list of potential campsites; no doubt they would attract scavengers and hungry apocalyptic tourists. Immediately past the family restaurant was an auto parts store.

  Jack pushed his wheels to the front entrance, finding the inside of the shop in complete disarray. The section housing automobile batteries appeared to have been hit the hardest. The display of car stereo systems was in shambles. “All hell has broken loose. The end of days is upon us, and yet some fool wants to make sure his aftermarket music comes with Bluetooth and touchscreen?” he mumbled, shaking his head in disgust.

  The metal door had already been jimmied, so Jack strolled right in. The area behind the counter was relatively unscathed. “Welcome to your suite, Commander Cisco,” he whispered to the empty shop. “I’ll be happy to unpack your things and put away your clothes. Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “I don’t like the décor and your standards need a little work, so your tip will reflect that,” Jack smirked, continuing his conversation with the imaginary bellman.

  Just as Cisco was beginning to unpack his kit, a distant rumble sounded across the otherwise quiet landscape. He jumped, reaching immediately for the rifle. A moment later, he realized the noise was merely thunder.

  Jack chanced walking outside and glanced toward the west. Sure enough, rather than the obscure sun shining through the ash cloud, he spotted a threatening, dark line of weather approaching. “Looks like you found a room at the stable just in time,” he grunted. “Hope the roof doesn’t leak.”

  Suddenly exhausted, he forced himself to focus on setting up the sleeping bag and stove. The counter seemed sturdy enough to stop most bullets, and he would be completely out of sight from the front windows. A few moments later, he was exploring his new domain, poking around the back office and wrinkling his nose at the filthy bathroom.

  His probe revealed a vending machine around a corner in the employee breakroom – still full of snacks. “Somebody missed some tasty treats,” he mumbled, wondering how fresh the goodies inside the glass display might be. It really didn’t matter – he needed to start replenishing his food supply. He would stash as much of the crackers, candy bars, and bags of chips into his pack as possible.

  Jack then spied a large push broom leaning against the office wall and had an idea. Discovery, in the middle of the night, was about the worst thing he could imagine.

  Taking the wide sweeper outside, he gently began to remove his tracks in the ash. The effect wasn’t perfect, but with the approaching storm and potentially high winds, it might be enough.

  Now, the thunder boomed almost continuously, the earth and sky seeming to generate a steady pounding of noise. Jack could spot lightning flashing in the distance, the strobes providing the most intense light he’d seen since surfacing in the Pacific last week.

  Continuing to address his growing insecurities, Jack decided to rig the shop’s front door. Waking up to find the barrel of some marauder’s gun sticking in his face wasn’t at the top of his wish list. He would sleep better knowing that no one could sneak up on him without notice.

  It was easy to collect a few heavy parts, that when stacked, created a worthy barricade. Ten minutes later, he had piled enough alternators, fuel pumps, and oil filters against the front entrance that it would be impossible to gain entry without creating enough ruckus to raise the dead. No one would be able to surprise him.

  The back door appeared to be locked, but he could still open it with the emergency bar. He had an escape route if it came to that.

  The rumbling grew louder, the occasional clap rattling the front g
lass. Having not spent much time in Southern California, Jack had no idea how intense the average storm could be. “They don’t have tornados here, do they?” he questioned, listening to the constant roar of the tempest.

  He glanced around, judging the store a sturdy enough structure to withstand the approaching gale.

  Jack moved to peer out the picture window, the racket outside nurturing some primitive fear that existed deep inside his core. “Thank God you didn’t get caught out in that,” he snipped, watching as the wind began to whip around the ash.

  Louder and louder, the crashes and booms grew, the wind now howling outside. There was no rain.

  The noise was so intense that Jack fought the urge to cover his ears. He’d seen his fair share of nasty weather while at sea, but this was unlike anything the commander had ever encountered.

  A bolt struck a nearby utility pole, brilliant, white light invading the building at the same instant that a deafening blast slammed against the shop’s glass. Jack instinctively ducked, then began backing away, sure that the windowpanes were about to fail from the onslaught of noise and electricity.

  Within a second, another firebolt struck nearby, and then another, and another. Jack’s legs gave way, the commander dropping involuntarily into a sitting position, his hands squeezed tight against his ears. The flashes were blinding, the storm’s clatter interfering with the commander’s ability to think. He could only huddle in fear, his muscles unresponsive.

  The tempest continued to unleash its fury, a constant barrage of exploding sheets of electricity. Jack was now prone on the floor, rocking in a fetal position and screaming at the top of his lungs for God to stop the onslaught. Some small voice in the back of his mind remembered the phrase, “Volcanic lightning.”

  The hair on his body tingled, and then Jack felt intense heat on his face. He opened his eyes in time to see the far wall disintegrate into a blizzard of white powder, and then the world went black.

  Something cold was dripping on his cheek. The runny substance made his skin itch.

  Jack attempted to raise his arm to scratch, but the limb wouldn’t respond.

  He tried again, managing to wiggle the fingers on his right hand. A weight on his wrist and elbow prevented further movement. He strained hard, spikes of agony shooting through his frame. Finally, he could move his forearm – a little.

  The commander tried to open his eyes, the effort rewarded by another bout of nasty, burning pain. His face was covered in some sort of biting dust. Keeping his eyelids closed was the only option. Water was dripping from somewhere. He tried to rise but found his legs and other arm were pinned as well.

  Jack struggled, pushed, squirmed, and tried to free himself. Every tensing of his muscles brought new levels of suffering, every attempt making his head pound with stabbing anguish.

  You’re going to die here, he thought.

  The concept brought a weak chuckle. After all he’d been through, after everything he’d endured, to die trapped under the collapsed wall of an auto parts store in Bumfuck, California seemed anticlimactic.

  Loneliness set in, a deep sadness that was rooted not in the fact that he was withering, but a realization that his end of days was coming in such an isolated, unknown manner. Would his wife and daughters ever know how desperately he had tried to reach them? Would those who rebuild this country eventually discover his remains? Or would his entombed skeleton only be unearthed by some archaeologist thousands of years from now?

  Fortunately, his torture didn’t last long. Jack’s exhausted, injured body demanded sleep. His consciousness faded, mental pictures of his girls laughing and playing in a sunny backyard filling the commander’s thoughts.

  It took him nearly a full minute to realize he was buried under bricks and mortar. Images began to invade his consciousness … the storm … the lightning … the exploding wall.

  Panic and adrenaline surged through his limbs, and with a significant effort, he began to wiggle a bit. His minor success rekindled his hope for survival. Jack pushed and kicked, strained and grunted, ignoring the sharp pains that raced through his core.

  There was nothing to push against. He was free. The rubble was gone.

  Finally, he managed to raise his head, drawing cool, fresh air into his lungs. He then tried an arm, managing to wipe the grit from his eyes.

  “You’re awake. ‘Bout time,” a gruff voice announced from nearby. “That was one hell of a shopping experience, eh partner?” continued the raspy throat.

  A surge of power rushed through Jack’s body, the cobwebs clearing from his head in a flash of clarity. Cisco looked up to see an older man sitting on a pile of debris where the auto shop’s wall had stood just a few hours before. “That’s the fourth one of those storms I’ve seen this month, and they aren’t letting up.”

  The stranger was a tall, thin individual wearing a heavy overcoat with a fur collar, a lever action rifle resting easily in the crook of his arm. Jack noted the red handkerchief around the man’s lower face, a western hat riding low. His eyes were friendly … or at least not hostile. He’s a rancher, Jack decided. Such men were still common outside of California’s larger cities.

  Jack’s own gaze swept to the carbine lying nearby.

  “Please don’t reach for that pea shooter, son. You won’t make it. I mean no harm,” warned the new arrival. Something in the man’s voice led the commander to believe his words.

  “My name is Archibald Bell. My friends, or at least when I had living and breathing friends, they called me Archie. And son, if I wanted you dead, I would have just left you under that pile of debris.”

  Jack nodded, “I’m Commander Jack Cisco, United States Navy, Mr. Bell. Pleased to meet you, and thank you for digging me out.”

  “Commander? US Navy? I noticed your uniform when I was pulling that crap off your head. I figured you were a Marine or National Guardsman. You rode that bicycle all the way out here from San Diego?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s only about 50 miles or so,” Jack nodded.

  “These days, I’ll bet that was one, exciting ride. Where are you headed, young man?”

  “Texas, sir. My family is there…. At least, I think they are.”

  “Are there many folks still alive in the big city? Is there still a government or military operating?”

  Jack started to answer, but then Archie waved him off. “Where are my manners? You don’t need to answer my questions, Commander. Hell, I just pulled you out from under a collapsed wall. Any broken bones? Any internal injuries?”

  “Just a few scratches, sir,” Jack answered, stretching and flexing each limb. “And I don’t have a lot of first-hand information about San Diego, sir. I was on a submarine out in the Pacific for several months. When we came back into port, the world had vanished … at least the biggest part of it.”

  It was another three minutes before the commander finally gained his feet, rising up from the mound of concrete and brick wreckage and almost immediately losing his balance, nearly falling. After steadying himself against the counter, he cleared the face of his watch and frowned at the time.

  It was 7:00 AM, according to the electronic digits. How could that be? He had been unconscious all night?

  The answer to his next question came when he tried to lift a leg. A throbbing ache resonated within the commander’s skull, the streaks of agony nearly causing his gut to heave what little bile was inside. “Okay,” he mumbled. “Moving isn’t a good thing just yet.”

  “You’ve got a good-sized knot on your head, Commander. I’m not a doctor, but I’d say you have a concussion. Might be best if you kept still for a bit.”

  Jack had to agree, sliding his back down the counter until he was resting on the floor. A quick glance at his surroundings informed the commander that he had been very, very lucky. Just three feet away was a much larger and deeper pile of rubble, one of the heavy steel roof beams protruding from the heap.

  Archie had another good idea. “While I was waiting to see if you were g
oing to rejoin the living, I figured out that this doohickey was a canteen. Here, drink some of this,” he ordered, handing Jack the Camel Bak. A moment later, Jack was desperately pulling water from bladder’s hose.

  The water helped. His next thought was of his bike. A quick scan found it was unscathed, resting on the kickstand right where he’d left it.

  Checking his body for wounds, Cisco found the expected assortment of small lacerations, his skin already showing signs of bruising around the worst of his injuries.

  Archie spoke again, “So you know about the volcano and all of the earthquakes, I take it?”

  “Yes, sir. But we only found out after we surfaced. You see, we were under radio silence. All this was quite a surprise when we finally reached port.”

  The local man laughed, “I bet it was.”

  “How about around here?” Jack asked. “Did many people survive in this area?”

  Mr. Bell’s eyes flashed a hint of sadness. “No. Afraid not. The Mosses are still alive, or at least they were last week. They told me the Shenfield and Chavez clans were still kicking, but I’ve not laid eyes on 'em personally.”

  “You said you’ve seen storms like that before? I’ve never … in all my travels seen weather like that.”

  “They started the week after the ash filled the air. Old man Moss is a retired geologist. He told me they were called dirty thunderstorms. He said that the ash blowing around in the air causes friction, and that creates the lightning. The last of these little dust kickers burned down my barn. If you see one coming, get low as quick as you can. More than one poor soul has been sent to meet his maker after getting caught out in the open.”

  “After what I just experienced, you don’t need to worry about that. I don’t think I’ll ever look at a rain cloud the same way,” Jack confessed.

  Mr. Bell scanned Jack’s bicycle and pack, his keen eyes taking it all in. “How are you going to pedal that contraption with a goose egg on the side of your noggin, son?”