Apocalypse Trails: Episode 5

by Joe Nobody

  Worse than his throat and mouth, the pounding inside his skull was like a jack hammer beating against his entire cranium. His joints ached, and his stomach burned. “Signs of dehydration,” he reasoned.

  For the Nth time, he was second-guessing his decision to avoid populated areas. “Which is worse? Being eaten by cannibals or shriveling up and dying out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  The highway sign several miles back advertised a park called Rattlesnake Springs. According to the ash-spotted billboard, the place contained a campground and recreational facilities. But it was the word “spring,” that had drawn the commander’s attention.

  He struggled up a slight rise, the two-lane, New Mexico highway not engineered nearly as level as the interstates that had ushered him most of the way from San Diego. Still, I-10 led directly into El Paso, and after encountering the flesh-eaters in the Tucson rest stop, Jack wasn’t about to venture near a large, urban center like the West Texas city.

  He couldn’t be faulted for his priorities.

  He could still smell the Cliff House’s fresh stream as he had taken a knee and filled his plastic bottles. It had been his final step of preparation before leaving. And that act had contributed the most critical component of his kit.

  He had carefully closed every lid, double-checked every cap. Water was precious, and the commander knew he was about to journey through one of the most arid stretches of North America.

  For the first two days after leaving Hewitt and his clan, Jack had managed his supply judicially. Not a drop had been wasted.

  Then, the largest jug in his pack, the 1-liter soda bottle, had failed.

  Jack wasn’t sure if he had over-tightened the top, or if the plastic had just become brittle with age. Whatever the reason, he had found the damn thing empty, the bottom of his pack soaked with its contents.

  That was at least two days of water. Gone. Vanished. Wasted. Dripping into the ash as he pedaled, darkening the pumice as he crossed the desert. After all you have survived, Commander, looks like you are doomed because of a faulty liter of cola. Wonder if the local Walmart will exchange this for me? he mused, desperate to keep his spirits up.

  Commander Cisco knew the value of keeping his mood light. Continuously being on the lookout for food, water, and shelter was nearly as exhausting as pedaling through the carpet of ash. That, combined with the constant need to maintain a heightened state of alert left Jack completely stressed out with no opportunity to relax and enjoy life. The emotional drain took its toll, as it would on anyone, and left the commander vulnerable to depression.

  As the miles passed, Jack found it increasingly difficult to deal with the reality that Yellowstone had created.

  The commander had always looked forward during troubling times. Years ago, as a young teen, he’d found that forcing himself to focus on the future was the best way to cope. An unproductive week at school was overcome by the approaching weekend. A bad day at the Academy could be offset by daydreaming of his own command. He and Mylie’s worst quarrel was counterbalanced by one of their daughters doing something amazing.

  Now, in the pewter and charcoal void, about the only way he could continue to motivate the bike’s pedals toward the east was to think of the future, and that was where the problem truly resided.

  What if he did find Mylie and the girls alive and well? How would he feed them if Texas looked like Arizona and New Mexico? What was the point? What was their future?

  Shelly and the people at Mud Lake were eventually going to run out of chili. Hewitt’s herd was fragile at best. At any time, a lightning storm or contagious blight could wipe out Archie’s greenhouse. Who knew how the men back at Utah had fared?

  No, the problem Jack soon began to realize, was how he could possibly create a long-term future for his family.

  Now, none of that would matter without a water source. His previous concerns seemed trivial given the death sentence that his dry throat predicted.

  The commander knew a few survival tricks, distant memories from childhood television shows and old black and white movie reruns. He decided against eating, knowing that digesting food required water. He also avoided pedaling to the point of perspiring.

  There was no need to avoid the sun as cobalt skies had gone the way of buttercup daffodils, iridescent peacocks, and bay mares. Well, at least I won’t have to stock up on sunscreen for a while, he mused.

  Then, out of the pewter haze that was the sky after Yellowstone’s eruption, Jack spotted the second road sign.

  It wasn’t much of an announcement, just a small, green rectangle with a white arrow and letters. “Rattlesnake Springs – 1 Mile,” it advised.

  The mere thought of cool, clean water rolling down the back of his throat empowered Jack with energy he no longer believed existed. The bike seemed lighter now, the pedals no longer fighting their way through the ash cover that incessantly challenged the tires’ advance.

  Rattlesnake Springs wasn’t much as far as parks go, or at least the handful Jack had visited before joining the Navy. It was outfitted with the pre-requisite booth to collect the traveler’s fee, a paved parking area, and two cinderblock buildings that housed restrooms.

  It took the commander another few minutes to determine the location of the creek – or at least the posted map that showed visitors which path to follow. “Shit! Are you kidding me? I have to hike into the wilderness now?” At least the trail was level. No more inclines to negotiate … for a while.

  Still, water was water, and with his empty plastic bottles and dry CamelBak in tow, Jack began the trek to the oasis purportedly 1.2 miles from the trailhead.

  As his legs protested the additional exercise, the commander briefly considered the effect of fallen ash on the local serpent population. He had always heard that cockroaches were considered the most likely survivors of any catastrophe. He didn’t know about the likelihood of rattlesnakes enduring volcanic slag but decided to watch his step and keep his weapon handy just in case. Be just my luck those reptiles would shelter under a rock and slither out for a meal once I step close, he mused. And it’s not like anyone is answering 9-1-1 calls anymore.

  The M4 carbine hanging from his shoulder weighed a ton, as did his boots. His pants and shirt felt like they were plastered to his body, cemented down with what seemed to be every ounce of ash blowing across the desolate stretch of highway.

  The path had been engineered using several switchbacks as it meandered through the desert terrain. The commander realized steep inclines had been avoided since climbing them presented a hazard to elderly tourists with compromised vision, balance issues, and arthritic knees. “Hell, I should have shown my AARP card at the gate and received a discount,” he croaked in a hoarse whisper.

  For just a brief moment, Jack considered leaving the trail, the lesson from the rest areas still fresh in his mind. “Water can be used as bait,” he remembered, picturing the trap he had narrowly avoided outside of Tucson.

  Given the state of his body and mind, Jack quickly dismissed the concern. The harsh reality was that he was out of options and faced certain death if he didn’t hydrate his failing body. Scouting and climbing over the surrounding rocks just wasn’t in the cards. Post-apocalyptic caution was thrown into the ash-filled wind.

  He smelled the stream before he saw it, the scent of the water emboldening the commander and lengthening his stride. Another bend, and there it was, a stone lined pond that would have been right at home on any Midwestern farm.

  Jack had hoped for some sort of cover or shelter to protect the precious liquid from the ash, but nothing of the sort initially met his eye. Fighting the nearly overwhelming urge to rush to the edge and begin slurping mouthfuls of the goodness, he forced himself to pace along the shoreline in search of the spring that must be feeding the miniature pond. “I wonder just how much tainted water could I swallow before I would jeopardize my health?” he whispered to the clean-looking pool. “Have the hazardous contaminants dissipated enough that I could chanc
e a sip?”

  Forcing caution back into his thoughts, the commander barely avoided a rash act. His gaze moved to the tangled, skeletal undergrowth at the far end of the basin. That’s where the most water would be. Plants like to drink. “You’re not without your wits after all, Commander Cisco,” he noted. “At least not yet.”

  As he stepped toward the leafless shrubbery, Jack could tell this had certainly been a green oasis before the eruption. Now, only barren, brown stalks and lifeless foliage met his eye.

  Finally, he approached what appeared to be a manhole cover embedded in the bank. Its heavy, metal lid was a struggle, but after several grunts and groans, the commander managed to roll away the iron cap.

  There it was, powerfully gushing from the sand – the spring!

  With the speed of a lightning strike, Jack’s hand shot into the shallow flow of cool water. The first swallow was unlike anything he had ever tasted on his lips. No cold beer had ever been as satisfying, no frozen treat providing as much euphoria.

  “And you were paranoid about being ambushed,” he started to say between gulps.

  A geyser of water exploded skyward before the words could form in Jack’s throat, stinging bits of rock and soil following a nanosecond later.

  Stunned, Jack was slower than he should have been, but his instincts kicked in. He rolled into the pond just as the crack and zip of rifle rounds split the air that his body had just vacated.

  The shooters, whoever they were, adjusted quickly, but the manmade shoreline of limestone offered the commander just enough cover as Jack tried frantically to rally his terrified and confused mind.

  He was too scared to move and didn’t know which direction to go even if he could force his legs to respond. He didn’t even notice the icy water, nor did he spot the men sneaking up behind him from the far side of the stream.

  Hot lead slammed into the mud and stone bank, Jack pressing his body lower until he was completely submerged except for his eyes and nose. He could feel the baritone compression of large caliber lead as it ripped past his ears.

  Just as he was sure the men trying to kill him were going to zero in on his skull, the tempo and sound of the gunfire changed. Now, bullets were flying in both directions. Now, the report of rifles blasted at his back.

  Assuming that the men behind him were allied with the shooters that had driven him into the pond, Jack thought the clash had subsided. Commander Cisco, Military Strategist, he chided himself. Here you hide in the bog, surrounded by the ‘Water Police.’ So much for the theory that asking forgiveness is better than asking permission.

  His assessment of the situation, however, proved to be flawed.

  Thirty feet from the shoreline, Jack spied a man rise with a shotgun pointing directly at the commander’s forehead. Before the assaulter could even shoulder the scattergun, three bullets tore into the aggressor’s chest with devastating effect.

  A blizzard of lead was now whizzing over Jack’s head, the two parties obviously well-armed and intent on eliminating each other.

  Given little attention was now being paid to his mud-immersed body, Jack began inching his way along the shoreline, hoping to remove his carcass from no man's land as soon as possible.

  Bit by bit, he pushed his way through the mire and silt at the bottom of Rattlesnake’s pit, slowly trudging through the sludge, keeping low, and praying neither side noticed his progress.

  While the gunfight still raged behind him, Jack approached a slight trench where natural drainage from the desert had created a shallow gully. Taking a deep breath, the commander lunged out of the water on his hands and knees and scrambled like a madman for the slight depression.

  When the air above him didn’t fill with buzzing, snapping lead death, the commander felt reinvigorated and began crawling on hands and knees as fast as his limbs could move.

  It seemed like the longest 20 yards Jack had ever attempted to negotiate, his eyes remaining fixed on a series of waist-high rocks and cactus that would offer salvation. If he could make that cover, he might even have a reasonable chance of escape.

  Finally reaching the stone bastion, Jack managed to rise to his feet and then stood, drinking in deep gulps of oxygen.

  A few moments had passed before he felt strong enough to move again. Hefting his rifle and concentrating on the continuing firefight behind him, he attempted to draw a mental map of the conflict. He had hostiles to the east and west, the pond to the north. The southern side of the spring appeared to be unoccupied.

  Tightly gripping his rifle, the commander began moving bent at the waist, scurrying from crag to pillar and then pausing to listen again. On the third such maneuver, he sensed that the skirmish was now mobile. Either that, or the stone formations surrounding him were playing tricks on his ears.

  The next cycle of movement proved problematic. To the south, there was no cover, the flat, barren landscape offering zero places to hide and nothing that would stop a bullet. More importantly, the gunfire to his rear now sounded even closer than before.

  Jack decided to cut to his left, spotting a bulky outcropping of boulders that would provide an excellent place to hide.

  Rushing to the stone formation, Jack rounded a corner and froze to prevent discovery. Three men were scuffling not more than 10 feet away from his position. The commander pressed his body into the rock crevice with the skill of a contortionist while struggling to pace his labored breathing.

  Within a second, it became apparent that the struggle dynamic was two against one. The burliest fellow was backing away from the other two, one of the attackers pulling a blade while the other advanced with balled fists. Everyone, it seemed, had run out of ammunition.

  Jack had no dog in this fight. He had no way of knowing who had been in charge of his welcoming committee and who had just been in the neighborhood when he moved in. There was no way to tell which of them had sighted his skull and let loose a bullet intended to create a new hole in his head and who heard the gunshot and decided to get in a little target practice. What he did notice was that the outnumbered dude was wearing a uniform.

  “I’m going to slice you up like a Christmas turkey,” growled the attacker with the hunting knife, holding the edge low and moving in on the balls of his feet. “You and them other rangers aren’t going to deny us anymore.”

  “Kill ‘im, Joe! Cut ‘im up,” the other assaulter snarled, letting his armed friend go first.

  At the same time, the outnumbered fellow spotted Jack creeping up behind the assailants and mouthed one word – “Help.”

  Something about the uniform engendered trust in Jack’s mind. He too had served his country as did most men who donned such garb. With no other facts to complete his analysis, the commander’s logic compelled him down the path of helping the cornered ranger.

  Seeing the eye contact from their prey, the unarmed fellow pivoted sharply and peered right into the commander’s face. “He’s the fucker that was in the spring!” the man barked.

  Jack’s carbine was at his shoulder in a flash, the muzzle now pointed directly at the knife wielder's head. “Back off,” the commander hissed. “Just back the hell out of here.”

  At that moment, another man burst around a nearby stone slab. He had ammunition. He was shooting.

  Jack felt a tug at his shoulder before the burning, stinging bolts of pain shot up his upper arm and shoulder. Without conscious thought or effort, his trigger finger was working hard, the M4 singing its deadly song as the commander poured lead from his sweeping barrel. One stream of thought directed Jack’s reaction – put down the shooter.

  Joe-the-knife-man somehow avoided Jack’s burst, as did the hefty ranger. The other two men involved in the fray, however, were not so fortunate.

  Before Jack could even digest what had just happened, the ranger was moving. Surprisingly quick for a guy with such a sizeable profile, Cisco watched as the previously cornered man rushed over and yanked the rifle from one of the men that the commander had just killed. Then, in ano
ther flash of movement, the uniform was towering over Jack.

  “You’re hurt,” the burly dude assessed, nodding toward the expanding, red stain on Jack’s sleeve. “Hey, thanks for saving my ass, man. Come on.…. Come with me.”

  The pain was now beginning to impact Jack’s reasoning and common sense. He hadn’t managed to secure any water, and this plot of earth was obviously hotly contested. He could hear gunshots and voices nearby. With his legs already growing weak, the commander didn’t feel like he had any choice.

  “Lead the way,” Jack replied.

  A hundred questions dashed through the commander’s mind. What had he stumbled into? Who were these guys? Why were they fighting amongst themselves? Which side wore the white hats? Jack’s post-apocalyptic cynicism presumed there was most likely a right and wrong side. How pessimistic, he thought. Have things devolved to the point where you always assume that one group is driven to save the species, another with much more self-centered interests? Once complex choices had seemingly devolved into a rudimentary analysis of the world as black or white, good or evil.

  Jack followed the big fellow over a series of squatty, rolling hills toward some unknown objective. As they left the stream behind, he began to observe occasional sentries along the route, all of them wearing the same uniform as the man leading him into the unknown. Jack struggled to keep up, his throbbing deltoid a constant reminder of his injury as he continued to move. His mud soaked clothing was an additional drag, his hands and lips quivering from the cold. He prayed this journey was short – his legs were shaking and wobbly now, either from the pain, loss of blood, or both.

  Eventually, the men approached what Jack realized was one of the main entrances to the famous Carlsbad Caverns, his guide finally slowing his long stride and drawing alongside the struggling commander.

  Has everybody moved below the surface? Jack thought. First the Marines at the air station, then Hewitt’s stone mansion?

  It made sense, he supposed, his mind traveling to places like New Your City and Washington with their extensive subway systems. Then there were Houston and Atlanta with their sprawling subterranean developments. He was wondering how many thousands of people had sought shelter in those protected spaces? How long could they survive without outside support? Just then, his host spoke, bringing the commander back to New Mexico.