Apocalypse Trails: Episode 2

by Joe Nobody

  “No shit,” Jack offered. “I promise I won’t spill one, little precious drop.”

  Archie then went about watering his plants, the commander amazed at how the soil soaked up the liberal amounts of liquid the rancher applied. When he was done, there were only a few gallons left.

  “By the time we cook something, leave a few quarts to drink, take a sponge bath, and fill the toilet, we will be bone dry.” Jack stared at the remaining water and marveled at how so little could accomplish so much.

  “How did you water the greenhouses before the eruption?” Jack asked, eyeing the long rows of glass houses.

  “I had a solar powered pumping system that drew water from Hobson’s Creek. If we had cloudy weather for a few days, then I used my backup generator. Now, my generator’s carburetor is clogged with grit, there’s not enough sun to run the solar panels, and the creek’s water is poison anyway.”

  Rubbing his chin, Jack asked, “Just how far away is that stream anyway?”

  Archie ambled to the door and pointed toward the north. “A little of a quarter of a mile that direction. But I’m telling you, son, that water isn’t going anywhere near what few plants I have left.”

  For two days, Jack managed to make the trip to the spring with Archie, but not much else. On the third day, it was almost noon before his throbbing headache reminded him of his injury, a sure sign the commander was on the mend.

  Another positive indication of Cisco’s recovery was a growing sense of cabin fever. That afternoon, he decided to explore the ranch while Archie tended to his precious seedlings.

  Not knowing the lay of the spread, the commander headed north, toward the creek. He wasn’t worried about getting lost, the three-inch irrigation line providing a path as well marked as the Appalachian Trail.

  While he walked, Jack pondered the future. He wondered how long Archie could keep up the daily water hauls and deliberated what the man would be able to do if he had enough of the precious liquid to fill all of his greenhouses with fruit bearing plants and trees. “I bet he could feed a thousand people with the output,” he whispered to the quiet countryside.

  It then dawned on the commander that Archie had something entirely more precious in his glass structures than nourishment for a small town. The rancher possessed the only green, budding vegetation Cisco had observed since surfacing in the Pacific. When the ash finally subsided, and the alkaline content was diluted by rain, would there be any seeds left to plant? Would natural flora come back on its own?

  Jack had visited Volcano National Park while stationed at Pearl Harbor. He’d strolled along the lava flows and noticed the emerald sprouts that seemed to take hold just a few months after the magma had cooled. “The seeds are deposited by the wind and birds,” a ranger had informed him on the tour.

  Glancing around at the empty sky and barren landscape, Jack didn’t see any birds. He wondered if anything would be alive for the wind to deposit. Was Archie’s little vault of seeds the last remaining cache of living plants around? Just how far did this devastation extend?

  Even the hardy pine trees further up in the mountains were brown and dead. Jack determined those species were some of the most robust on the planet, given the conditions in which they had previously thrived. Maybe he was just in a hard-hit area? Were there places on the globe that weren’t as inundated with corrosive ash? There was no way he could answer those questions.

  Shaking his head to clear that line of depressing thought, Jack heard a clamor ahead. The sound was repetitive, nearly constant, a low rumble that had him instantly scanning the sky in search of another approaching lightning storm.

  He found only the same sickening shade of somber haze on the horizon. Relieved that he wouldn’t have to endure another artillery barrage of sky bolts, his attention returned to the racket ahead.

  A short distance later, he figured it out. Hobson’s Creek had a waterfall.

  It would have been a picture postcard setting were it not for the pumice ground cover. There, tumbling down across the hillside, cascaded a beautiful, little stream, narrow enough in places for a boy to think he could jump to the other side. Boulders and exposed rock lined both banks, the line of water snaking down the slope toward the valley below.

  The commander approached, shaking his head at the waste. Copious amounts of water rushed over the three-foot high stone ledge and plunged into a wide pool below. Archie’s irrigation pipe lead into the depths, no doubt the deepest part in the area.

  Jack stood and watched the hypnotic water for several minutes, finding the flow and roar relaxing.

  While his spirit was renewed, the pain in his body was beginning to pulse, a pesky reminder that he was still not 100%. “Better not push it out here, old boy,” he chided himself. “It’s not like Florence Nightingale is at the emergency room waiting to show you her bedside manner.” To avoid a possible setback, he turned back toward the ranch, the world’s problems a little less heavy on his mind.

  The next morning, after their water run, Jack announced that he was going to head back to the interstate and retrieve his bicycle. Archie, not wanting to let his new friend go alone, agreed to ride shotgun.

  The two men chatted along the way, each expressing his own opinion of how long it would take before the world started looking like a hospitable place again.

  “The ash is getting thinner,” the rancher announced. “It’s hard to notice day to day, but I can tell. I have to sweep less and less of it off the top of the greenhouses. Last week, there was barely a quarter of an inch. Once the sun comes back out, things will start to recover.”

  “I think we’re going to need a lot of rain and time,” Jack said. “If this stuff is as poisonous as you say, it’s going to take a long time to dilute the compounds to the point where seedlings will germinate again.”

  Nodding, Archie added, “Yes, but when it does, we will have some of the richest soil around. I’m thinking about becoming a lawnmower salesman when the tide turns. Everything is going to sprout like crazy in a few years.”

  Laughing, Jack had to hand it to his friend – Archie definitely had a point.

  They found the commander’s bike right where Archie had left it in the auto parts store. As Jack bent to remove some of the debris for a path, he noticed a box that contained an alternator among the fallen brick and stucco.

  Setting the small generator aside, an idea popped into the commander’s head. “Hey, Archie, how high would you say that waterfall is down at the creek?”

  Squinting, the rancher replied, “I’d guess at least three feet. Why?”

  “I just had an idea. Probably a silly one, but have you ever seen a water-powered, grain mill?”

  “Only in pictures,” he snorted. “Now I know I have a few years under my belt, but those were still a little before my time,” the rancher countered.

  With a chuckle, Jack continued, “What about a hydro-electric dam? Ever see one of those?”

  “Of course, I have,” Archie answered with a dismissive wave. “But we don’t have any turbines or waterwheels. What are you thinking?”

  Jack bent and retrieved the alternator, holding the spare part up for his friend’s inspection. “What if we used the waterfall to turn this and create electric power? We could run a pump from the spring back to your greenhouses.”

  “Might work. Do you think it will generate enough juice to power a pump?”

  “We only have to force the spring water to the top of the canyon. Gravity will do the work from there.”

  Archie was clearly intrigued. “My batteries from the solar-powered pump are still in pretty good shape. We could charge them from the waterfall. And the good Lord knows I’ve got plenty of irrigation pipe lying around.”

  It took Jack another 20 minutes of searching the auto parts store to find what he was looking for. After loading up the bike with two more alternators, several different sizes of belts, and a few different voltage regulators, the duo headed back to the ranch.

  For three day
s, Jack experimented with different shapes and sizes of paddle wheels. After each morning’s water run, the commander would eat and then head toward the creek, filling Archie’s cart with an assortment of scrap lumber, barbwire, an old tractor wheel, and anything else he could scavenge from around the ranch. The burned down barn proved an especially fertile hunting ground.

  On the fourth day, Jack finally had constructed an apparatus that would survive the waterfall’s insistent pounding. Like the paddlewheel on an old style riverboat, the falling water slapped against salvaged barn beams and spun the wheel. With a smile, the commander then started assembling a series of pulleys and building a frame for the alternators.

  By the sixth day, Jack began to tire of the constant need to improvise, frustrated with the additional time and effort required to finish the project. “I really need some bolts and brackets,” he sighed as he evaluated his progress. “And they are going to have to be steel or a strong metal. Wooden boards and nails just won’t handle the stress.”

  Archie thought about Jack’s needs for a few minutes before responding, “You know, there used to be a hardware store over in Pinemont. That’s a good 20 to 25 miles from here. Of course, you could go back toward San Diego. Plenty of shopping there.”

  The thought of returning to the city didn’t sit well with Cisco. “Have you been to Pinemont since the eruption?” Jack asked, trying to read the worried expression on his host’s face.

  “No, I’ve not ventured that far. Butch Osweiler had family over that way and went to find them about a month after everything went to hell. I never saw him again.”

  Dismissing his friend’s concerns, Jack responded, “You don’t know something bad happened to him. Could be things were better there and he decided to stay.”

  “Could be. But I knew Butch pretty well. He wasn’t the sort to just up and leave his place. He was a lot like me … sort of a homebody. He was also a very capable man, probably the best outdoorsman in the area. He was an expert hunter and used to travel all over the country to track game.”

  Jack still wasn’t convinced. “Anything could have happened, Archie. You know that.”

  “I suppose,” the rancher responded. “And even if Butch did run into trouble, it might be things have changed since then. That was back when a lot more people were still alive … and I hate to say it, but where there are more people, there are a lot more problems.”

  “I can do over 20 miles a day on my bike,” Jack mused, dismissing his older friend’s apprehension while he formulated a plan. “A day there and a day back. I’ll have plenty of time to poke around and find what I need. When I return with those last parts, you’ll have more than enough water to expand your output. Hell, who knows, you might even be able to kickstart food production for the entire area after the soil heals.”

  Archie seemed to like that notion. Finally, he replied, “You’re a grown, freeborn, man, Commander. I won’t turn down your offer. On the other hand, I’m naturally lazy, and if I can get out of irrigation duty every day, these old bones would surely complain a lot less.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Jack said. “Could you show me on the map where this palace of hardware was located?”

  The next day was spent preparing for the journey. Jack felt like he had nearly recovered from being buried alive under the crumbled wall. The pounding in his head had subsided, and all of his cuts and bruises were mending nicely. The water-boy workouts had him feeling stronger than ever.

  His diet didn’t hurt. Jack’s body welcomed the nourishment offered by carrots, tomatoes, avocados, and cabbage, all washed down with lemonade. He noticed that his fatigue pants had become loose around the waist, but he considered the reduction a positive result of increased exercise coupled with a serious decrease in junk food. Flexing his bicep, he marveled at the defined muscles that had miraculously appeared. “Just my luck,” he whispered under his breath. “I finally get ripped, and GQ is not being published anymore.”

  The following morning, he was packed and ready to go at dawn, his bike loaded to the gills.

  Archie pulled him aside to review a rudimentary, hand-drawn map. “There are two places along your route where I would pay close attention,” he advised. “The first is the area around the interstate where I found you. Since the civilization fell apart, I’ve encountered more strangers there than any place else I’ve explored. Second is the actual town of Pinemont. Most of that little berg was a vacation spot for tourists wanting to get away from San Diego for a weekend. The last few years, however, a stream of undocumented workers began settling on the outside of town. Most of them were good, honest folk, but the influx did introduce a new element, and not all of it was positive.”

  Nodding his understanding, Jack asked, “What is the terrain like?”

  “Hilly. More so than around here. I hope those fancy gear doodads on your two-wheeler work well. You’re going to need them.”

  “If I’m not back in three days, then I’m probably dead, and it's been nice knowing you,” Jack said with sincerity, offering his hand.

  Archie accepted the handshake, replying, “You’ll be back. I can spot a strong survivor from the next ridge. I’ll see you in a couple of days, and I’ll even let you have the first, hot bath.”

  Jack laughed at the offer and then was off, pedaling down the lane as his front wheel wobbled.

  Chapter 8

  Even transporting his gear, riding the bike was surprisingly faster than walking. Before he knew it, the lofty sign of the auto parts store towered on the horizon, immediately followed by green road signs announcing the interstate.

  Jack slowed his pace and began to scout the area ahead cautiously, Archie’s words echoing in the commander’s head.

  It was Cisco’s lucky day, however. He passed through the exit’s congestion without spotting a single soul.

  A short time later, Jack again found himself in the countryside, rolling quickly past farmland and semi-arid hills. Taller mountains occasionally showed themselves ahead, dark shapes peeking between the curtains of ash and dust that still hung thick in the air.

  At every bend and crest, Jack would slow or stop, taking extra time to study what lay ahead. While rolling into an ambush was his worst nightmare, there were other, non-human hazards as well. Right over the top of one small knoll, he encountered a large pine that had most likely suffered a lightning strike and toppled across the road. Another section of the pavement must have been the deposit area for a wind alley, as the ash and grit were heaped nearly two feet thick. Both obstacles required that he dismount the bike and push his doomsday buggy around or over nature’s barricades.

  At just over ten miles from Archie’s place, Jack observed smoke on the skyline. A small column of black soot was spiraling into the air just off the highway. The perfect size for a campfire, it was the first sign of other humans he’d detected.

  Knolls and lifeless trees blocked any view of the flames or who might have started the fire, which was just fine with Cisco. He wasn’t in the mood to make new acquaintances. With his carbine now in one hand, and pedaling at a faster pace, Jack bolted from the area just as quickly as possible.

  He learned to spot homes well in advance of the structures or mailboxes becoming visible. He trained his eyes to follow the power lines and utility poles leading from the main line that paralleled the asphalt highway. The area seemed sparsely populated at best, and the few residences that were visible from the road either seemed dark and forgotten or had burned.

  The charred remains of one such structure reminded Jack to check over his shoulder toward the southwest. Being caught in one of the new-age lightning storms was not on his agenda.

  Two hours later, a highway sign appeared, its green background and white letters in stark contrast to the carpet of grey that blanketed the area. “Pinemont 5,” it read. Around the next bend, Jack noted that the roadway climbed into the distance.

  He would have slowed his pace regardless of the incline. It was just the smart thing t
o do when approaching a populated area. Now, however, he had no choice.

  Less than a mile passed before Jack’s legs began to seriously feel the burn. He had already shifted the bike into its lowest gear, barely making enough headway to balance the machine in the sludge of pumice that fought against his tires.

  Despite the temperature dropping rapidly as he ascended, Jack began working up a serious layer of perspiration. He wondered if he should stop and cool off, knowing good and well that sweat could freeze and ultimately threaten his very survival.

  Another sign announced that there was a scenic overlook ahead. “I’ll stop, cool off, and grab a quick bite to eat,” he announced to the empty road. Then, to boost his morale a tad, he added, “What a great workout this is. I’ll soon be down to my fighting weight.”

  He rolled onto a paved pull-off, the landmark really nothing more than a wide spot in the road where motorists could stop and gaze at the valley stretching out below. Jack was disappointed in the view, the visibility severely hampered by the gritty atmosphere and obscured sun. “This might have been something back in the day,” he whispered. “Now, it’s just a good spot to rest my legs.”

  He sliced open one of Archie’s avocados, consuming the juicy fruit rapidly while scanning the terrain below. Next, he opted for a stale package of peanut butter crackers, a leftover from the vending machine.

  The ranch’s spring water followed, Jack’s thirst intensified not only by his exercise and dry food, but by the altitude as well.

  Archie had warned the Navy man. “I’ve got some old plastic bottles that are clean. That fancy canteen you carry is all well and good, but you’re going to need a whole lot more water than that. The higher you climb, the more moisture your lungs will lose with each breath.”

  He sat in the eerie silence of an Armageddon in which the hums of life were a novelty. Taking another swig, Jack studied the barren landscape below. “Will this qualify as a ‘scenic’ overlook again?” he questioned. “Will there ever be insects? Birds? Animals? Will plants ever flourish again without the bees?”