Avalon: The Retreat (2 page)

As he entered the garage, the large Yamaha waited for him in silence. It sparkled as the dim light, catching on the chrome and perfect paint job, gave off momentary little flashes as he moved toward the machine. His reflection moved on the surface as he readied it.

A street legal Yamaha 250 X dirt bike with enough power to climb serious hills, it could easily throw a person off when power was rolled on if they weren’t ready for it. There was no doubt that this was a real man’s bike, a no nonsense mean machine.

He first strapped on the extra gas can that waited in the corner. Next came a couple of essential goodies that he kept in a nylon bag, always ready for this eventuality. He cranked up the bike and pressed the remote control button on the garage door. It slowly opened, sounding metallic as the rollers turned in subtle, jerking movements that lifted the door up with a clatter and grinding sound, allowing the fading daylight to spill in.

The noise in the garage was deafening from the bike’s powerful engine. Blue smoke quickly filled the small space, but it immediately began to drift out the open door. He took a last look at his Corvette with a twinge of remorse; he would never have use of it after today. He thought of how much he loved his car, particularly its raw, unbridled power.

The wave of nostalgia passed. What was most important at this moment was the need to live as the world began to swirl into mayhem and insecurity. He didn’t know yet how bad things were, but it wasn’t hard to guess about how far and fast they would degenerate.

Mike quickly slung the pack onto his back, clicking the buckled straps into place. Satisfied after a final check, he eased the bike out the door and hit the button on the remote. As the garage door slowly closed, he shoved the remote into the side pocket of the backpack just as the door reached the bottom and creakily settled shut.

He knew it was only a temporary stopgap; looters would probably strip the place bare sooner or later in the coming days. A little foresight had urged him to remove all the non-essentials long ago, leaving only the basics. Reaching over, he unbuttoned the top half of his shirt front, allowing him access to one or both handguns under each arm.

The next intended stop would be the first rendezvous at the initial cache he and the others in the group had painstakingly established months ago. Once there, they would become better armed, away from prying eyes and without drawing attention. His planning was thorough, and he knew the initial cache was precisely seventy-five miles away from his driveway.

The planned route would take him through the dwindling suburbia of his neighborhood, out and away from home, along country roads and open fields, and eventually off the beaten path. Another part of the journey would have him riding through a creek bed, which remained dry in all but the wettest months. It would be dry this time of the year; not a drop of rain had fallen anywhere around here in weeks.

It was cloudy today, with cooler temperatures than there had been all week. Some of the trip much farther down the road would take into consideration an abandoned railroad right-of-way, but there were no railroad tracks. Decades ago, they were deemed unnecessary and were removed by the railroad and installed elsewhere.

He knew this would be a fairly safe course and it was unlikely that he would meet anyone as the miles slipped by. If he did, he had decided a long time ago to essentially ignore them, if possible, and continue on. At this very moment, getting to the cache, and then the retreat, were the first two items on his agenda.

As he considered the current time frame, he felt grateful it was still daylight. Traveling by dirt bike had one major drawback… it was noisy and could be heard coming for a mile or more. That meant he had to be careful where he traveled and not set himself up for an ambush. The overwhelming benefit was that it could eat up the miles rapidly. Even seventy-five miles traveling cross country would pass by in under an hour and a half, with a little luck.

These thoughts, along with so many others, flowed through his mind in an endless stream as he made his way out of his semi-suburban neighborhood.

A few blocks before he was clear, he rounded a corner to find a band of gang bangers plundering an abandoned car. They were easily recognizable from their distinctive mode of dress. He knew this was the first of many civil disorders and it would only get worse in the upcoming days. The bad guys would come out of the woodwork as society began to break down.

He stopped well away from them, surveying the scene with his small binoculars. They were busy and didn’t notice him watching. He saw a man lying in the road with a pool of blood growing around his head that spread out like a fan and glistened as the light reflected off it. The man’s skin color convinced Mike he was dead or nearly dead from the massive wound, and there was no perceptible breathing. Given the massive blood loss, the outcome was clear. He’d seen enough death to have a good idea what it looked like. He was still a little distant from the scene in front of him, but he was confident his deduction was correct.

Three of the gang members held a woman on the hood; one was on top of her while two others held her down. She appeared to be unconscious as she lay there limp, not putting up a fight. They had ripped her clothing to shreds and the front of her body was exposed.

His sense of morality and justice urged him to act, but he knew there were people depending on him to show at the first rendezvous. Every minute he delayed potentially put them in danger. Ammunition wasn’t a problem although he knew he should conserve it, just in case.

He only vacillated for a split second before he decided to act. He might not have the ability to correct other unjust situations, but he knew he could act on this one. So he did.

The bike lurched as he quickly moved close to the scene within pistol range. A quiet rage filled him as he drew closer, but he quickly pushed it aside, knowing it would only cloud his judgment at a time when he needed it most.

Stopping the forward momentum of the dirt bike, Mike turned his body slightly as he removed his 1911 A1. He took careful aim and squeezed off three rounds. Three of the gang bangers lurched and fell to the ground. Those who went down didn’t make any effort to get up, and one of them twitched as his nerves caused him to convulse. The others ran around the car and attempted to hide.

The woman fell from the car onto the street, clearly lifeless. Her face hit the pavement and some of her teeth broke off and skittered past her chin. He realized there was no point in taking further risk, so he put the .45 away and shoved off as they stared at him from their hiding place. A couple of them turned and ran away, while two others stood their ground. He could see the hatred burning in their eyes and he heard the word “Gringo” shouted toward him.

He knew he couldn’t save the world; the stark reality was there was going to be a lot more of this as the days went by. The people to which he had made a pledge were the most important priority to him right now and he knew he needed to make the meeting.

The scene quickly slipped away as Mike entered a creek bed in which he traveled for a few minutes before pulling out. He then crossed a field of clover and noticed there were a few cows that grazed leisurely. He stopped and cut the barbed wire, and once through, he mended the fence with the extra wire he had placed there long ago, wrapping it around the post during his planning of this route.

It was simply one more detail that had become part of his plan. He wasn’t a vandal, after all, and he wasn’t going to leave an opening for the farm animals to escape. If they did later, it wouldn’t be because of anything he had done. Perhaps it seemed a petty thing to do but in his mind, it was the right thing to do. He made good time and soon noticed a stand of thick woods ahead. As he thought about it, he decided it could be a dangerous area, perhaps the ideal place for an ambush by unfriendly people.

It was early, he knew; the proverbial balloon had just popped in which Middle Eastern extremists had set off a small suitcase-type nuclear bomb in the middle of Atlanta, Georgia. Not that any type of nuclear bomb was actually small. Another was detonated only minutes later in Washington, D.C. He didn’t know it yet, but the death toll was soaring. It climbed as quickly as the mushroom clouds that had already begun to swirl up into the heavens on the East Coast.

The deaths of 9/11 paled in comparison to what had just happened and the loss of American lives in a matter of days would eventually exceed the casualties of the Revolutionary War, Civil War, Vietnam, Korea, and World Wars I and II combined. The overwhelming carnage and casualties swamped police and hospitals, essentially rendering them ineffective during the initial onslaught. Thousands of accidents on the freeways and highways added to the ensuing massacre.

People panicked and ran in every direction, not really knowing where to go or what to do. Their instinctive fight or flight mechanism had been activated and since they could see nothing to fight, they ran.

Mike continued toward the woods, but just before entering, he decided to turn and go around the thick clump of trees. He understood the cost of losing even a little time. Going around the woods might add an extra fifteen minutes to the trip, but his gut told him it was the best choice, so he gave the area a wide berth.

As he passed the particular section of trees that had concerned him most, people came out. They had rocks and clubs in their hands and though he was armed, he likely would not have been able to defend against the lot of them. He knew his instincts were good and had likely just saved his life.

He ate up the countryside on the 250X and left the people on the outskirts of the wooded area jumping up and down and shaking their fists at him. In another moment, they were gone from view. He was grateful he had trusted his intuition and listened to the inner voice that had saved him again, just as it had in Bosnia.

The miles were devoured as he rode, and he knew it was only a few more minutes until he would turn to the left and approach the first cache. He stopped a short distance away and took out the binoculars. As he scanned the area, it appeared safe enough, but he saw there were two other dirt bikes there. They were hidden, tucked into the brush and partially obscured, but not from his trained eyes.

He recognized the bikes, knowing their riders, and they knew his too. At first glance, they remained hidden, but they showed themselves as he approached. They had already started digging, and had stopped when they heard him coming.

Mike parked his bike with the others and took off his backpack in order to help them dig. The one who had most recently dug assumed the guard. It was Caroline, an ER registered nurse, and an important member of the unit. She was also beautiful.

Mike and she were close.

The events that were transpiring came as no surprise to Mike and his survival group. To them, it was not as much a matter of if it would happen, but when. They had decided early on that having a stocked cache en route to their carefully built retreat was a good idea, principally because several items such as automatic long guns and hand grenades were better left securely buried. Some were even considered illegal to own in various states, but having them available when the need arose served the group’s purpose once society was on the verge of a major collapse.

It was also discussed and agreed upon that well-stocked caches of essentials such as food, weapons, ammo, and medical supplies would be a pivotal part of their getaway. In a dire situation, it could have been possible that some of them might not be home or they might have been forced to abandon whatever they had in their bug out bags, those pre-packed essentials for times such as this. It meant they could be forced to flee unarmed or possibly wounded… or they could be killed.

The tubes were made of 8-inch PVC plastic pipe with an end cap cemented at one end and a threaded, screwed on cap on the other. The threaded cap had a heavy duty rubber gasket on the inside that made it waterproof. They were not buried deep in the ground, and they contained food, medicine, bandages, ammo, long guns, and magazines for each team member, plus a few others.