by Joe Nobody
Joe came next, his thick torso supported by big bones and oversized hands. He had been with the team since the beginning and was a quiet individual. The last place on earth any man wanted to be was in a hand-to-hand contest with Joe. Keith again made eye contact with his more pensive comrade, the disappointment and worry clear in his friend’s gaze.
Bringing up the rear of their shot-up group was James, the comedian who seemed to be able to find humor in any situation. Seldom serious, Jimmy preferred the lighter side of life, especially when it came to finding fault with his teammates, and jokingly pointing out any shortcoming or failure. Keith often wondered which was sharper, Jim’s wit or Joe’s fighting knife.
“So much for being a backdoor man, eh, boss?” Jimmy said as he passed.
The remainder of Keith’s assault force trailed behind, including those carrying the fallen.
With sad eyes, Keith watched the limp bodies bounce and jolt as their pallbearers managed the uneven terrain. He’d seen so much death since the eruption. He wondered if it was possible to become immune to the work of the Grim Reaper.
For the first time he could recall, Keith questioned the wisdom of asking his old Army buddies to join his new company.
In reality, he had made those initial phone calls because of a chance meeting with Ham a few short weeks before. “I was working as a scab electrician in Scottsdale,” his old buddy had explained. “When the housing bust kicked in a few years back, they laid everyone off, and I’ve been living on unemployment ever since.”
A bit more research informed the former officer that his other friends weren’t doing much better. Joe had re-enlisted for another tour and fought heroically in the first Gulf War, only to come home with a bad case of PTSD. He had struggled to hold a job ever since.
Jimmy could only find work as a bartender in Las Vegas. “If you ain’t a bombshell or don’t have a college sheepskin, finding steady work can sure be a struggle. There’s not much work for worn out paratroopers these days, LT,” the joker had reported with a jaded voice.
Even Keith himself had floundered, his efforts to build a good life for his family always seeming to hit an impenetrable and unforgiving wall. Despite a degree in finance, promotion and advancement in the corporate world were challenging at best. In the cutthroat environment of ever-changing computer software, internet based business, and off-shore service providers, the brawny fellow was always struggling to hold his own.
Deeply troubled by how veterans were being treated, Keith had taken the plunge and started his own construction company. He would hire those who had served their country. He would give as many as possible a home, and most importantly, hope.
“What have I led you into?” he whispered, watching his defeated group pass by. “Would you have been better off if I hadn’t called?”
Keith’s mind traveled back to that day when Norval’s green pickup had run him off the road. That had been the first he’d ever heard of any sort of active volcano bubbling under Yellowstone. It had been a day that he would never forget.
While the whirlwind of events that followed was now a cloudy kaleidoscope of dim and hazy memories, Keith could recall that first afternoon in The Simpson lobby with exacting detail. Ranger Pickett’s words would forever remain fresh in his mind.
“They had better be heading home, I suppose,” the ranger had spouted when questioned on what the local vacationers and residents should do as a result of the eruption.
That one sentence had summed up an attitude that had led to countless deaths and unimaginable suffering.
Shaking his head in disgust, Keith fell in line behind the last of the ragtag unit, his mind racing through the ever-present doubt and second-guessing that came with any setback.
Just as the park ranger had suggested, Keith and his men had left Carlsbad the day of the eruption, driving toward Phoenix and their eager, frightened families. What they had encountered could only be described as chaos.
The two Myers Construction trucks seemed to be the only people trying to get into Arizona’s largest city. Not even Jimmy could manage a joke about the outgoing lanes packed with citizens attempting the mass exodus.
By the second morning of the eruption, widespread looting plagued every retail outlet that offered foodstuffs. From organic bananas to breath mints, anything that could provide calories was in exceedingly high demand. Violence spread like wildfire throughout the city. Pandemonium ruled from the bustling, downtown skyscrapers to the normally calmer suburbs and every point in between.
By the third day, Keith and his guys had gathered at the boss’s modest home. “We can’t stay here,” Ham noted. “My wife and kids are scared shitless. Less than four hours ago, I watched a gunfight on my street that rivaled any skirmish I ever saw in Panama.”
“My family is in the same, tight spot,” Keith nodded. “There’s not a can of soup left in the city, and that damn volcano is still spewing tons of garbage into the sky. But where can we go?”
“I think we ought to head back to Carlsbad,” Ham had suggested. “There are a lot fewer mouths to feed down there. A lot less competition for resources. We could hunt in the mountains and get water from the springs.”
For two hours, the team had hashed through a rough plan. Unfortunately, none of them had any idea how dire things were about to become. None of them were prepared for the scope of the disaster and its long-term impact on the environment.
Now, looking back, Keith realized he’d been naïve. “Once they understand that people in the urban areas are condemned to certain death, the rangers will let us live in the caves,” he’d suggested. “That ranger said there were tons of water and food down there. We’ll go back and ride this out under the ground.”
They had poured into the park, a convoy of company pickups and family vehicles, all filled to the brim with weapons, ammo, camping equipment, and as much food and water as they could gather. Their escape from the anarchy that was Phoenix had been an epic adventure of its own, but their numbers had worked in their favor, allowing them to complete the journey.
Given their military background and the supplies they had brought, Keith had expected Norval to welcome them with open arms.
Instead, the head ranger had ordered them off the premises at gunpoint and sternly warned them never to set foot in “his” park again. The encounter had come within a hair’s width of breaking out into a pitched battle.
Quickly recovering from the shock of being denied sanctuary, Keith and his crew had returned to the only local place they knew – The Simpson Hotel.
Keith instinctively knew they needed to “up-armor” the facility to survive. Foul air had already slain tens of thousands downwind of the volcano. The television and radio broadcasts were a constant stream of warnings, every government agency advising residents to remain inside, not to breathe the ash that was falling like snow along the Eastern Seaboard, and to beware of the risk of roofs collapsing under the weight of the pumice.
Fortunately for the refugees, Myers Construction already had stashed a considerable amount of equipment at the old inn. What had started off as a basic remodeling job had turned into a major project when asbestos had been discovered in the structure. The owner’s misfortune had turned into Keith’s salvation.
His men were outfitted with air filters, masks, breathing systems, and all the equipment required for a large-scale hazardous materials removal. Truckloads of drywall, lumber, new windows and doors, and even plumbing supplies were stored in the barn.
“This hotel is going to become our Fort Apache,” Keith announced to his disheartened followers. “We need to filter the air as best as we can, shore up the roof, and make this place defendable. The swimming pool will serve as our water reservoir, and its cover will protect it from the ash. Let’s get going guys. If the talking heads on television are correct, we only have a few days before hell rains down from the sky.”
It had been three days before the first heavy ash fall. In that time, he and his men had wo
rked around the clock trying to prepare for what they all hoped would be a limited period spent hunkering down at the at the old lodge.
The Simpson Hotel had been constructed shortly after World War II, the facility located much closer to the actual Carlsbad Park than the town that bore the same name. Because of the desert location and the flatness of the landscape, the original builders had planted dense vegetation and tree lines to enhance the isolated locale. This combination of landscaping and camouflage, Keith hoped, would serve to protect his people from both the elements and any passersby that might have ill intent.
That assumption proved to be far from reality.
Within hours of their beginning construction, panicked locals and stranded tourists began driving into The Simpson’s lot and seeking shelter where they could find it. The town of Carlsbad, it seemed, was chockfull of vacationers who didn’t know where to go, yet didn’t believe they could make it home. Many reported being chased away from the park by hostile employees.
Keith’s team was nearly unanimous in their view that strangers shouldn’t be welcomed into their fold. “We’ve only got so much food and water,” Joe had stated. “There’s not enough to go around.”
Pulling the retractable, steel ruler out of his tool belt, Jimmy had playfully offered his assistance. “No worries, guys. I got this. Only the ones that measure up can stay. I am thinking 36-24-36.”
Keith, always the strategist, did the real math.
Despite his intention of removing emotion from the equation, his effort proved ineffective. Too many variables made any prophetic models ineffective. How long would the ash fall? What was the government’s planned response? How long did the storm’s refugees need to hold out before they could expect assistance? What type of help could they expect?
“We aren’t going to be like those asshole rangers,” he eventually proclaimed. “We’re not going to turn people away. That’s not how Americans roll.”
In the matter of a few short days, the men of Myers Construction transformed The Simpson’s second floor into what could be described as a hybrid between a medical isolation facility and a bed and breakfast inn.
Their asbestos removal gear was repurposed into an air filtration system for the entire floor. Windows were sealed, vents and ducts closed off, and entrances converted into safe passages with double doorways. None of the team had any real experience with toxic elements; they simply relied on common sense, what little they had garnered from the non-stop newscasts, and Joe’s memory of the long ago broadcast documentary.
Still, some of the military training was helpful. All of them had passed through the required courses on fighting with what the Army called “NBC” suits, or Nuclear, Biological, Chemical. By the time Keith was shepherding his flock of more than 50 frightened people into The Simpson, he was sure their preparations would survive the impending threat.
Less than four weeks after the ash began to fall, the first signs of respiratory illness began to rear its ugly head. Tempers had grown short well before that.
Food rationing was one thing, water conservation another. No one felt like they were getting their fair share. Fights broke out, arguments and frenzied rages flared.
Throughout it all, Keith and his old Army buddies grew closer and began to assert more and more control. Even then, it was clear that their supplies weren’t going to last nearly long enough.
The first death occurred in what he and his men began referring to as eruption plus five, or the fifth week since Yellowstone had changed all of their lives. An elderly lady, on vacation from Seattle, succumbed to the ash.
A family from Iowa lost a 3-year old child next, the toddler showing flu-like symptoms and coughing up mouthfuls of blood for a few days before finally crossing to the other side.
By the end of eruption plus seven, they had buried over a dozen people, with almost that many more showing signs of illness and despair.
It soon dawned on Keith that things were not going to get better without some significant changes. While food and water were always a concern, their makeshift filtration system was failing miserably, resulting in their demise. They needed clean air at a minimum.
In his mind, the options were limited to one potential solution. He had to get his people into the caverns.
As he trailed behind his men, Keith remembered the first time he’d approached Ranger Pickett about sharing the underground space. The man’s hostile attitude and overt threats had seemed so out of place and unreasonable.
“No, you can’t move into the caverns. Understand that we will shoot you if you try. We have very limited resources in here, and our job is to protect this national treasure for future generations. Sorry, but you are on your own,” Norval had preached.
“What future generations?” Keith had argued. “There aren’t going to be any tourists hiking through your damn park if we don’t save the people who are here right now. We know you have practically unlimited water supplies, and you’ve admitted none of your folks have had lung issues. For the love of God, Ranger, let us move inside. You won’t even have to share your food, just access to clean air and water will save dozens of lives.”
Norval would have none of it, and Keith’s famous temper began to boil over. Three days later, the first gunshots were exchanged.
As the dispute escalated, it became apparent to Keith and his men that the only way they were going to gain entrance to the caverns was to force their way in. Norval and his crew were determined to keep them out, and the result was a full-blown shooting war.
Pickett and his rangers weren’t stupid, nor were they without military skills. The entrances to the caverns were fortified, blocked, or heavily defended.
It was just yesterday that one of Keith’s scouts had discovered yet another opening to the system of caves. This one was behind Rattlesnake Springs, and his man had found the area unguarded.
That bit of intel, it seemed, wasn’t accurate.
Keith’s invasion force had slammed into a strong defense at the rear door, including the stranger at the spring.
According to Joe, the new guy was equipped with a military issue M4 and plenty of ammo. Had Norval somehow managed to rally reinforcements? Where had this stranger come from? Why was he siding with the enemy inside the caves?
Shaking his head in disgust over their failure and the fresh complexity to the dilemma posed by the newcomer, Keith’s mind returned to the primary issue at hand. He had to get his people inside the cave, one way or the other. Their filters were failing, and more and more of their group were showing signs of respiratory issues. The pool water was almost gone, and while they could get fresh water at Rattlesnake Springs, carrying enough of the heavy liquid back to The Simpson was logistically an impossibility.
Keith felt a growing source of desperation building, yet tried to keep his rage in check. Time was running out, the situation made worse because their salvation was almost within reach … but not quite so.
As he watched the column ahead, his attention moved to the limp, lifeless bodies being hauled back to the hotel. “I think we’re all better offing dying quickly with weapons in our hands,” he whispered. “I’ve watched enough people struggle to breathe and finally succumb. That’s no way to go,” he continued.
Then the brawny contractor’s thoughts turned down a different path. He began wondering just how far his mind would go to justify the causalities suffered today. Was death by a bullet really better than coughing up a lung? Was he just trying to give his soul an escape route? To clear his heavily burdened conscience?
“One thing’s for certain,” he hissed. “That monster Pickett and his merry band of murderers would be happy to put all of us out of our misery.”
Chapter 26
Despite the exhausting combat and days of pedaling, sleep eluded Jack. The pain in his arm and shoulder had escalated from a dull ache to throbbing misery, the commander now second-guessing his refusal of the meds Ms. Legs had offered.
But his injury was not
the only challenge that prevented Jack from succumbing to the sandman. His adrenaline was in overdrive, and his heart raced a little faster since he’d ventured underground. He was keyed up from being immersed in an unfamiliar environment, around people he neither knew nor trusted. While he wanted to believe he had discovered another group of like-minded survivors, the little voice in the back of his head just would not be quiet.
Sure, Jack shared the same stereotypical respect for park rangers as most Americans. The general image projected by the National Park Service was of a group of honest, trustworthy individuals who not only cared about the country’s natural resources but also worked hard to ensure that visitors were kept safe and could enjoy the “purple mountain majesties and amber waves of grain.”
Rising to sit on the edge of his assigned cot, Jack scanned the dimly lit interior of the room where he’d been resting. The crags and rough stone walls were reassuring in a way, but not enough to slow his racing mind.
While he still hadn’t been given the official tour of the caverns by the head man, Jack had seen enough to send his thoughts in a dozen different directions.
One of the unforeseen issues with traveling at a snail’s pace across the doomsday landscape was that Jack now had more time on his hands to think than during any other period in his life. Sometimes, that had worked against him, as there had been incidents when he fell victim to the paralysis of analysis. He had found himself hesitant to act because he had no basis for making a decision. After all, there just wasn’t a lot of hard data available about the best way to survive the eruption of a super volcano or how to journey half way across the continent in its wake.
Often times, like this particular night, Cisco found his neurons firing when his body cried out for rest. Fighting the insomnia was futile. Until his mind could answer its questions, it refused to be still. Jack realized his best recourse was to recline on the bed, close his eyes, and let his mind run amuck.