Apocalypse Trails: Episode 1 Page 13

  Jack kept his optic mostly centered on the leader. He had to admit, whoever they were, they were pretty good. Not once did he see a chance to shoot both of them, one or the other always took cover before his partner advanced. “You’ve been fighting for a while,” he whispered. “And I have not. I’m outnumbered and outmatched.”

  Jack decided to egress toward the rear of the store, praying there was some sort of emergency exit. He soon found a heavy metal door, complete with a push bar latch. His first effort to open the portal was met with quite a bit of resistance. Realizing that the ash had probably puddled outside the exit, he slammed his shoulder into the metal slab. A moment later, he was back out in the light, then gently letting the fire door close behind him.

  He found himself standing on a small, concrete pad that evidently served as the bike shop’s loading dock. He started to step off, thinking to run for the next store, but then stopped. The stalkers would only track his footprints. Eventually, they would catch him out in the open and fire their weapons. That noise would probably bring help. Their help.

  Glancing right and left, Jack spied an access ladder. The metal rungs lead to the roof, probably used by maintenance men to access the HVAC units above.

  Careful to leave no sign, Jack grasped the rail, and began hauling himself up quickly.

  He managed to pull himself over the edge when he heard the back door open slowly. Chancing a glance over the side, he noticed a plume emerge, his adversary’s head pivoting left and right, checking for footprints.

  Jack steeled himself to wait by the ladder. If the predators decided to climb, there was no place for him to run or hide on the building’s roof. He would catch his foes halfway up and kill them both.

  Some voice of reason within the commander had to ask, “How do you know they mean you harm? How do you know these are bad guys? Maybe they are not your adversaries?”

  Fortunately for Jack, the man at the rear exit never glanced up. In less than a minute, the plumed headdress disappeared back inside. Jack hustled for the front of the store, keeping his profile low and treading lightly on the roof so his footfalls couldn’t be heard within the shop. He saw the two emerge from the main entrance a moment later.

  They seemed confused, the leader pointing to the multiple sets of bicycle tracks, evidence of Jack’s road tests. After several minutes, the featherheads finally slinked away, moving with caution, always with a keen eye toward the ground.

  Jack remained on the roof, his heart rate finally slowing down just as the duo disappeared in the distance. He descended into the store to resume his shopping, his eyes constantly checking out the front windows.

  “You got lucky,” he stated in a low tone. “Really, really lucky. You can’t be stupid anymore and survive in this world. Think, Commander, think.”

  The last bicycle he’d ridden seemed to handle the ash the best. It was one of the newer models, featuring wide tires that seemed to glide more on top of the volcanic debris than plowing through.

  Jack needed saddlebags to hold his kit. Evidently, the biking community called them panniers, which was the French word for basket. He found a model that touted the largest storage and a waterproof seal.

  Next he located a pump, a small inner tube repair kit, a multi-tool that advertised it contained every type of device that a bicyclist would ever need.

  Jack found a handlebar pack plus a set of brackets that would allow him to store even more gear over the back tire.

  Again, he scouted the front of the shop, taking his time to study the surrounding area. There was no movement.

  Quickly attaching all of his acquired equipment to his new wheels, Jack then mounted the bike and leg walked the machine to the entrance. He sat for nearly two minutes, staring and listening for any sign of other human beings.

  Finally, stoically announcing, “Now or never,” he pushed off, pedaling back toward the base and its relative safety.

  It took Jack a while to get accustomed to his new mode of transportation. He hadn’t ridden since high school, and then he’d only borrowed a friend’s bike when gas money was running low. The fancy contraption between his legs was manufactured with multiple gears and very sensitive brakes.

  He decided to take a different route back, desiring to avoid the sickening scene at the grocery store. His confidence was returning, and it would be good to test his new transport as well as survey more of his environment. The commander knew Ulrich would be curious about the base’s surroundings as well.

  At each intersection and open space, Jack coasted to a stop and scanned the area. The homes appeared empty, a few of the nicer residences seeming to have been looted. Jack strained his ears for any sound, but he didn’t detect any dogs barking or children playing. “The entire city has either bugged out, is in hiding, or is dead,” he declared. “Well, except for the featherheads. They seem to have the run of the place.”

  Three blocks later, Jack read a sign that indicated a high school was to the right. The direction wasn’t completely out of his way, and the commander remembered that schools were occasionally used as community shelters during tornados and hurricanes. “Maybe that’s where everyone is holed up?” he considered.

  Jack could barely identify the outline of the huge facility in the distance when the first bullet zipped past his ear.

  He swerved so violently, the bike crashed down, tearing a section of Jack’s fatigue pants and sending the commander tumbling through the ash. The fall saved his life.

  A stream of searing lead ripped through the air right where he’d been just a split second before, the heavy concentration of gunfire originating from a group of school buses next to the main building.

  Jack turned hard, trying at the same time to bring his weapon into play. But moving through the volcanic residue was like swimming through mud. He felt like he was caught in a nightmare where no matter how hard he tried, his body either wouldn’t or couldn’t move fast enough to ensure his survival.

  His muscles wouldn’t respond at the rate his brain was screaming commands. Rolling for cover while trying to secure his rifle to his shoulder was impossible. It seemed like everything but the incoming blizzard of hot ammo was moving in slow motion.

  Jack managed to get behind the front wheel of an automobile parked along the street, the shells now whacking and thwacking against the unfortunate car’s sheet metal. So intense was the incoming maelstrom, he couldn’t bring himself to raise above the hood and return a single shot.

  He now longed for his escape vehicle, but it was a good 10 feet away, lying motionless in the street. He decided to run, but there was no place to go. A quick glance right and left showed open territory where he would have been cut to pieces within five steps.

  At that moment, another set of rifles joined the fray. Jack could somehow tell the difference, and immediately decided he was being flanked. A few moments later, he realized that the number of bullets flying in his direction seemed to lessen, the blasts dissipating.

  “Go down fighting,” he hissed, still cowering behind the wheel. “You are an officer in the United States Navy, not some paralyzed wallflower. Get into the fight. Use your weapon!”

  With a growl, Jack rose above the hood and pulled the carbine’s trigger. Nothing happened.

  “Shit. It jammed already?” he snapped, ducking back down and glaring at his rifle. Then it dawned; the safety was still engaged.

  Again, Jack stood from behind his cover and squeezed the firing mechanism. Finally, the M4’s report assaulted his ears, the volume causing him a brief instant of surprise.

  With a deep breath, he forced himself to slow down and scan the buses with his optic. He needed a target. He spied a rifle barrel poking out, soon joined by a feather protruding from behind one of the yellow vehicles. He centered the weapon and pulled the trigger, just like he’d been taught the day before.

  The plume jerked once, again, and then Jack spotted the body plummet face down in the ash beside the bus.

  Hot shards of me
tal stung Jack’s head as he again became the focus of attention. Round after round sought his soft flesh as he squatted down behind the protective motor and wheel.

  Jack wanted to puke, the memory of the falling featherhead replaying over and over again in his mind. He’d just killed a man. He’d taken another life. He was a murderer.

  The shock and guilt didn’t last long. As more and more hostile fire zipped his way, Cisco began to transition … to grow angry … to sense the injustice in it all. He hadn’t started this fight. He was only trying to survive. He hadn’t committed murder. He wasn’t evil. He had been forced to take another life to preserve his own.

  The incoming fire grew in intensity. It was a contemptuous barrage, the enemy clearly pissed by his taking down one of their own. Jack felt like any movement, in any direction, would cause his flesh to be ripped apart. He knew he should return fire, could guess that hostile men were moving to flank him. Yet, he was unable to move. Images of his head exploding in a crimson cloud if he chanced a return shot paralyzed him. He could almost feel the bullets tearing through his chest if he tried to run.

  A deep fury welled up inside the commander, emotions strong and raw unlike anything he’d ever experienced. He’d been forced to return fire! Now they were trying to kill him for defending his life! The grim reality of the situation pissed him off.

  A small part of his thinking began to realize a sort of satisfaction. He had weathered the continuing storm of incoming lead. He began to experience survivor’s euphoria, an overwhelming sense of joy at still being alive. He realized he didn’t stand much of a chance of surviving this perpetual onslaught, but he’d proven himself under fire. One of the foe was already eliminated. The best his attackers could do now was even the score.

  Jack began gulping deep breaths of air, building his courage to rise and return fire. His knuckles were tight on the carbine, his eyes darting right and left as more and more bullets tore into his cover.

  Then the tempo of the incoming blizzard changed, a new pattern and volume of sound reaching the commander’s ears. Someone else joined the fray … shooting from another direction … with different weapons.

  The commander sensed that less muzzles were aimed in his direction. “Now is your chance,” he hissed, popping over the hood and squeezing the M4’s trigger at nothing specific.

  He spied three of them now, their feathers and white paint pointing to Jack’s right. Someone else was blasting blistering lead! Someone had come to his rescue!

  Jack selected the closest bird-man, centering the red chevron of his optic in the middle of the feather-head’s chest. He fired … and then fired again.

  The target spun as if he’d been struck by a hammer, his weapon spiraling through the air. Jack didn’t wait for the fellow to collapse before pulling the trigger again. He was a man on a mission. To annihilate every, single one of the aggressors.

  Now the featherheads were confused and growing desperate. Another exposed himself and was cut down before Jack could center his aim.

  “Who is helping me?” Cisco whispered, waiting for another target. “It must be Captain Ulrich and the men from Utah!”

  A bullet tugged at Jack’s shirt, the shot so close he could sense the movement of it piercing the air. Dropping back down behind the wheel, his mortality rushed into his mind. “You idiot!” he cursed, “you know better than to keep your head up that long!”

  Again, Jack drank in the air, rebuilding the courage to stand and join the fight. Movement from over his shoulder caught the commander’s eye.

  For a second, Jack thought some of the birdbrains had finally managed to maneuver behind him. Raising his rifle while wondering where he could find cover, the commander noted a single arm waving at him. “Come here,” it was signaling. “Come this way.”

  Lowering his carbine, Jack was unsure what to do. Before him stood a row of houses and garages, the mysterious arm protruding around the corner of a white-plank bungalow. When he didn’t move, a cloth-covered face appeared, and again flapped frantically for Cisco to hurry that way. “If you want to live, come with me!” a voice shouted.

  Turning to glance back at the featherheads, Jack spied another five of the white-painted fiends darting from the school, brandishing weapons and shouting encouragement to their besieged comrades.

  “Hurry!” the voice from the house encouraged. “We can’t hold them forever!”

  It was the most difficult decision of his life, Jack’s head pivoting between the seemingly friendly mask by the house and the obviously hostile birdbrains. As he started to stand and run, he remembered the bicycle lying in the street. He couldn’t fathom having to repeat this day and find a replacement.

  Without thinking, Jack began firing randomly at the school buses as he rounded the Swiss-cheese sedan that had saved his life. In a flurry of motions, he grabbed the bike and darted toward the house.

  The cottage was a good 30 yards to safety, and his movements hadn’t escaped the shooters next to the school buses. Searing lead chased Jack, the bullets buzzing past his head like angry insects. His legs pumped and strained like never before.

  “Are you nuts?” a voice barked as he rounded the corner with his bike. “Are you fucking crazy?”

  Filling his chest with air, Jack finally took a moment to size up his benefactor. Whoever was behind the mask was all of five-feet-nothing, the battle rifle nearly as big as the body belonging to the waving arm. “Come on,” his rescuer barked. “Follow me!”

  It was difficult for Jack to keep up given his two-wheeled transport and its heavy cargo of accessories. Still, he managed, zigging and zagging through what was a typical American subdivision of middle-class homes.

  They pressed hard for three blocks, and then the mask slowed down to a medium jog. Jack’s burning legs welcomed the change of pace.

  Another four blocks passed before the commander noticed there were now three more camouflaged figures paralleling his course, one street over. They wore the same dark outfit as his escort. “I’m being rescued by ninjas,” he whispered. “Midget ninjas.”

  He would have probably laughed aloud were it not for the battle rifles and the fact that these little people had just saved his sorry ass.

  On they raced, Cisco sensing their general direction was east. A distance away, the sprinters finally slowed to a brisk walk, and Jack had a moment to study his surroundings. They passed houses that had burned, others having clearly been ransacked. A few showed signs of structural damage, probably from an earthquake. In a way, the neighborhood reminded the commander of pictures he’d seen from the world’s war-torn regions. He could have been passing through the Ukraine, or one of Iraq’s big cities, or even Germany at the end of WWII.

  A few blocks later, Cisco noticed four more shadowy figures appear, blocking passage on the sidewalk, directly ahead.

  Jack and his escort finally stopped, the naval officer drinking deep mouthfuls of air as he struggled to regain control of his lungs. A moment later, the commander found himself surrounded by black-clad figures.

  “Who are you?” a gruff, male voice demanded.

  “Commander Jackson Cisco, United States Navy. Who are you?”

  “I don’t believe him,” sounded another muffled response. The speaker was female … and young.

  The leader of the black masks stepped forward, pointing at the name badge on Jack’s fatigue. “His uniform says Cisco, but he doesn’t look like a Latino to me.”

  Confused, Jack scanned the eyes staring at him through the slits of cloth covering the surrounding faces. They were children. All of them. Some must have been 10 or 12 years old. Even the oldest couldn’t legally buy a beer.

  “Where are your parents?” the commander asked.

  The leader racked his weapon, raising the barrel slightly as a warning. “I’m asking the questions. Are you Latino?”

  “My great grandparents were from Mexico,” Jack answered honestly.

  “Hablas Español?” the kid asked.

 
Frowning, Jack replied, “Very little. Why? What is this all about?”

  “We are the Chicanos,” the leader replied with pride. “We rescued you because you killed one of the Eagles. They are our sworn enemy.”

  “Eagles?” Jack repeated, realizing the name matched the feathers and white body paint. “Who the hell are the Eagles? Where are all of the adults?”

  “There’s no one living on the Navy base,” offered another veiled warrior. “We’ve been through the whole place. The Marines are all dead.”

  “My submarine just docked a few days ago,” Jack countered. “We’ve been out to sea for months. What is going on around here?”

  While he couldn’t have been more than 17, the Chicano’s leader wasn’t stupid. Tilting his head in understanding, the teen responded, “So you don’t know what has happened. You weren’t here. You were out under the water and missed everything.”

  Nodding, Jack confirmed. “Yes, that’s right. We know a little, but not much. Now, could someone please explain to me about the Eagles … and Chicanos … and where all of the grown-ups are?”

  “Does your submarine have any food?” asked one of the smaller fighters.

  A harsh look from the leader silenced any additional inquiries, which was good because Jack already decided he’d said too much.

  “The school you were riding by is East Central High School. Their mascot was the Eagles. The football team formed their gang, and now all of the white kids around here … the ones still alive … have joined them.”

  Jack understood immediately. While he had assumed some sort of Native American influence, given the feathers and war paint, the school mascot made just as much sense. “And the Chicanos?” he asked, already sure of what the answer was going to be.

  “The Latinos had to band together. The white kids were picking us off, one by one. We had no choice.”

  “They always hated us,” spouted another voice from beneath a hood. “They always thought they were better than us.”