Apocalypse trails 4, p.1
Apocalypse Trails - 4, page 1
part #4 of Apocalypse Trails Series
Apocalypse Trails
Episode 4
By
Joe Nobody
Copyright © 2017
Kemah Bay Marketing, LLC
All rights reserved.
Edited by:
E. T. Ivester
www.joenobodybooks.com
This is a work of fiction. Characters and events are products of the author’s imagination, and no relationship to any living person is implied. The locations, facilities, and geographical references are set in a fictional environment.
Other Books by Joe Nobody:
Apocalypse Trails: Episode 1
Apocalypse Trails: Episode 2
Apocalypse Trails: Episode 3
Secession: The Storm
Secession II: The Flood
Secession III: The Surge
The Archangel Drones
Holding Your Ground: Preparing for Defense if it All Falls Apart
The TEOTWAWKI Tuxedo: Formal Survival Attire
Without Rule of Law: Advanced Skills to Help You Survive
Holding Their Own: A Story of Survival
Holding Their Own II: The Independents
Holding Their Own III: Pedestals of Ash
Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent
Holding Their Own V: The Alpha Chronicles
Holding Their Own VI: Bishop’s Song
Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star
Holding Their Own VII: The Directives
Holding Their Own IX: The Salt War
Holding Their Own X: The Toymaker
Holding Their Own XI: Hearts and Minds
Holding Their Own XII: Copperheads
The Home Schooled Shootist: Training to Fight with a Carbine
Apocalypse Drift
The Little River Otter
The Olympus Device: Book One
The Olympus Device: Book Two
The Olympus Device: Book Three
The Ebola Wall
Prologue
The day of the eruption
Sheriff Hewitt Langdon reached for the phone, his sleep-fogged mind instantly annoyed by the machine’s obnoxious tone. “Sheriff,” he croaked into the receiver.
The dispatcher’s unwelcome voice was thick with embarrassment. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but Mr. Prichard believes Mexican illegals have crossed over the border onto his ranch and are intending to relocate his cattle south of the border. He sounded mighty upset, and he said he’s heading out to the barn right now with his shotgun. He asked to speak with you specifically, and when I told him you weren’t on duty tonight, he told me not to worry about it ‘cause he needed a little target practice anyway. I hated to call, but I thought you should know … before he shoots somebody … or himself. Lord knows his eyesight ain’t what it used to be.”
“Where is the night shift deputy?” growled the lawman, once his sluggish brain engaged.
“Bo’s answering a similar call up north. Seems to be the night for rustlers and horse thieves. I tried to call one of the reserves, but he didn’t pick up.”
A mental parade of excuses and protests came next, harsh words of rebuttal forming in Hewitt’s mind. Tell that paranoid, old fart to go back to bed, he mentally retorted. Doesn’t he know I’m about to retire and need my beauty rest?
Yet, serving 31 years as Ventura County’s only elected law enforcement officer wouldn’t allow such a response. A natural leader and reluctant politician, the sheriff had learned to think twice before he spoke. “Okay. I’m on it. Tell that crusty, ole codger I’m on my way down to his place. And for gawd’s sakes tell him to unload that damned scatter gun. My mug is hard enough to look at without adding a lot holes from buckshot.”
“Yes, sir. Will do. Be safe.”
Sheriff Langdon rose, rubbing the sleep from his eyes while cursing the hour. After brushing his teeth and splashing a handful of water on his face, he opted for blue jeans and flannel rather than his official uniform. It was too damn early for starched collars, neckties and dress shoes. If he started answering pre-dawn calls appearing all prim and proper, folks would get the idea it was okay to call anytime, day or night. “Next thing ya know, they’ll have me rescuing cats from trees by the light of the moon,” he muttered, pausing long enough to give himself a once over in the mirror. As a last-second addition to his casual attire, he rubbed a squirt of Old Spice across his stubble.
He topped off his ensemble with his duty belt, complete with .45 caliber sidearm, extra magazines, handcuffs, and spare badge. A pair of well-worn boots and tan Stetson hat rounded out his wardrobe.
He paused as he walked by the kitchen, his brain subconsciously wandering toward the stained coffee pot resting on the counter. “No,” he mumbled. “Better get going before Prichard’s trigger finger ruins the rest of my day.”
He noted the stack of dishes in the sink and swore again. He’d meant to wash them last night, but somehow the unwelcome chore had been forgotten. “Just another sign of old age,” he grunted, heading toward the door. “Miss Kelly is probably rolling over in her grave.”
The unruly rose bushes surrounding the front porch caused him further despair. His wife would have never tolerated such overgrowth. For a moment, he could see her image brandishing a pair of pruning shears, snipping away just enough to reveal a properly manicured, English garden. “Kelly, I promise I’ll trim them this Saturday,” he grunted, glancing toward the heavens. After receiving no acknowledgment or forgiveness from above, he continued for the Crown Victoria police cruiser occupying the driveway. Like his landscaping, it had seen better days.
Fumbling to secure the keys in his pocket, Hewitt instinctively felt the need to hike his pants. The act generated more disdain. “I’m getting so old,” he hissed. “I don’t have enough ass left to keep my britches on anymore. Barely any place to hang a firearm. No question. Retirement was the right decision.”
The Prichard ranch was situated at the southern end of Ventura County, Arizona, about as far away from the Hewitt’s house as was possible given the sheriff’s jurisdiction. The commute gave him plenty of time for pre-dawn reflection.
He thought about the tattered calendar hanging on his office wall, sporting neat rows of days that had been crossed off. Just five more weeks before the new sheriff would be sworn in. That left just over 35 days of chasing down Mrs. Chavez’s perpetually lost terrier, a bit more than 800 hours of dealing with the rare fender bender and serving the occasional foreclosure notice for one of the Tucson banks.
Hewitt didn’t write speeding tickets anymore. Despite pressure from the county’s district attorney and elected commissioners, the sage law dog had figured out years ago to let his deputies generate the much-needed revenue from traffic fines. In a jurisdiction of fewer than 900 voters, Sheriff Langdon figured every citation was a ballot cast for an opponent in the next election. Political awareness was a necessary evil for the man who felt a deeply engrained love for the law. Early in his career, he had carefully defined the acceptable parameters of politics and law enforcement within his daily duties. For decades he enjoyed sleeping like a baby, evidence of his successful balance of the two opposing elements of his job.
The Crown Vic’s headlights tunneled through an arid, rocky landscape, Hewitt hardly paying any attention to the familiar surroundings. It wasn’t until he reached the county’s only town and namesake that his attention wandered beyond the roadway.
The Ventura County seat shared its name with the county itself. Meaning “luck” or “happiness,” the founding fathers must have hoped for a double portion of good fortune. However, it, like so many small communities in the desert Southwest, had seen its fair share of ups and downs.
Recalling local history as he motored through the small village, Hewitt tried to visualize a booming Ventura as hundreds of prospectors and miners spent their paychecks in what the historical society described as a series of brothels, saloons, gambling halls, and establishments of nefarious repute. The 1830s had witnessed that first population explosion, copper and silver discovered in the surrounding mountains and drawing men from all over the world to seek their fortunes in the desert. “Now that would have been an exciting time to enforce the law,” he chuckled.
Then, 40 years later, a second economic boom had struck, this one driven by the railroad. Ventura had been a marshaling yard and water stop for the ever-expanding network of iron horses crisscrossing the Southwest US during that era. The town’s population had blossomed to rival Phoenix and Scottsdale. After the rails were laid, the crews moved on, and again, Ventura had fallen on hard times.
Now, as his car passed through the small, dark community, it was difficult to imagine such multitudes of people and a flurry of commerce occupying what now was essentially a crossroads with a courthouse and two street lights.
The modest settlement consisted of a single-room post office, a feed store, the courthouse, and Carlos’s Diner, which was basically an all-in-one gas station, convenience store, and half-assed greasy spoon. The antique “mall” had closed a few months ago, it being the last eviction Hewitt hoped he would ever have to serve.
Again, his mind drifted to a bit of morning brew as he approached his favorite breakfast spot. Checking his watch, he grunted. Carlos wouldn’t be opening for another hour. Coffee would have to wait.
Just like that, Ventura was in his rearview mirror, more of the same rocky, arid terrain now rolling past the cruiser’s windshield. “A man can’t even get a pre-dawn cup of java in this one-horse town,” he mumbled, regretting not taking the time
Through the years, he had questioned why he and his bride stayed in Ventura County; Kelly never did. But then, she was the real people person.
Sure, the place was backwater. It was a two-hour drive toward Tucson before you could hope for the convenience of a strip shopping center. Even the few local children citizens suffered from the isolation, having to be bussed over 90 minutes each day to Nogales to attend school. The lack of convenience and availability of everything from a new pair of boots to a dentist was damn unhandy. Ventura wasn’t the kind of town where you wanted to run out of toilet paper in the middle of the night.
Yet, there were good, honest folk all around. If he didn’t count the occasional border crosser’s body surfacing in the desert, there hadn’t been a murder here in nearly 15 years. Old man Prichard might be in the early stages of dementia, but he wasn’t a bad sort. Carlos’s eggs were greasy but fresh, and the waitress always kept his cup full with a smile. There were a lot of positives about Ventura.
None of that, however, was going to be Hewitt’s concern in five weeks. As he accelerated south, a chest-deep yawn reminded the sheriff that his retirement was long overdue.
Truthfully, his decision not to run for reelection hadn’t been all that tough. Sheriff Langdon, now a regular feature at the diner since Miss Kelly had succumbed to the tumors in her breasts, had casually announced his intention almost a year back. Between heaping fork-loads of scrambled goodness, he declared, “I’m going to hang up my gun belt and badge … focus on fixing up my place. I’m not going to throw my hat into the ring this year.”
He still remembered the stunned look on Carlos’s face. For months, the local entrepreneur hadn’t believed Hewitt would truly keep his name off the ballot. “You’re an institution in Ventura County … a legend … an icon. You can’t quit.”
The lane to Prichard’s Ranch then appeared in the circular radiance of Hewitt’s headlights. The sheriff slowed and turned onto the washboard, hardpan path that he suddenly remembered was over two miles long.
“If I lose a filling on this call, I’m going to have the county send Prichard the bill,” he grumbled through gritted, jarring teeth as he bounced along the uneven path.
Eventually, the dim outline of several buildings became visible on the horizon. Between the dips and minefields underneath his tires, Sheriff Langdon could discern the main house, an oversized, metal-roofed barn, and a dozen or so lesser outbuildings.
Prichard met the lawman at the edge of the drive, double-barrel shotgun resting in the nook of his arm. “Thanks for coming, Hewitt. I already made a tour of the perimeter. I can’t figure out what’s got the livestock stirred up, but they sure are spooked,” the leathery, old rancher announced.
Sure enough, the anxious bays and whinnies of both cattle and horses tumbled across the pre-dawn desert sand. Something had the animals on edge … or riled up … or both.
“Let’s go take a look,” Hewitt responded, hiking up his pants with a frown.
As the two men marched toward the livestock pens and corral, the sheriff felt a genuine sense of relief. At least he hadn’t yawned, nodded and zipped across half of Arizona for nothing.
After twenty minutes of Hewitt’s flashlight identifying no tracks, cut fence, or rustlers, the duo returned to the driveway. “Beats me,” the sheriff muttered, rubbing his wiry stubble in puzzlement. “Maybe there’s inclement weather moving in? Maybe there’s a big cat passing through the area? Hell, Prichard, I don’t know, maybe they’re just tired of seeing your ugly face every morning?”
The rancher grunted at the tease, his gaze traveling toward the still-restless animals. “Could be,” he sighed in disgust. “But it’s just damn odd, Hewitt. Almost 50 years in the bovine business, and I’ve never seen an entire herd so upset.”
The cattleman then shrugged, evidently coming to grips with the fact that the mystery was going to remain unsolved. “Thanks for coming out, Hewitt. Sorry about the hour.”
“That’s what the citizens of Ventura County pay me for,” came the softer-than-expected response. “At least for a few more weeks. I’m going to head back into town … call if anything else comes up.”
“Can I get you a cup of coffee for the drive back? There’s a fresh pot on the burner.”
For the first time that morning, Sheriff Langdon smiled. “Do you have a to-go cup?”
Ten minutes later, Hewitt was pulling onto the paved highway, again cursing Prichard’s uneven lane for causing half of his java to end up on the Crown Vic’s vinyl seat. With a deep breath, he managed to check his frustration, “No worries. Carlos’s is only 20 minutes away.”
The sun was squirming over the horizon when the sheriff rolled into the diner’s parking lot. Out of habit, he scanned the small collection of vehicles present. The usual crowd was already there.
Steering past the two gas pumps, he aimed the Crown Vic into an empty spot next to Henry’s twentieth century, Chevy pickup, noting the feed store’s owner was yet again testing the truck’s rear springs with a bed full of bagged corn. “I hope he isn’t going to try and navigate Prichard’s lane with that load. Bust an axle for sure,” he whispered.
The sheriff opened the hefty, glass door leading to the combination gas station and convenience store when his lawman’s sixth sense perked. Something was wrong. The cash register, surrounded by the usual displays of beef jerky, peanuts, disposable lighters, and colorful lottery ticket dispensers was abandoned. The drowsy kid, ordinarily parked on the stool behind the cash box, was nowhere to be seen.
Subconsciously moving his hand toward his sidearm, Hewitt’s gaze swept the wall of glass refrigerator doors stocked with soft drinks and beer and then traveled up and down each aisle. No one was manning the store.
“Maybe he had to take a bathroom break?” Sheriff Langdon muttered, not wanting to accept that a robbery was in progress just a few weeks before he turned in his badge.
Before he could move toward the door marked, “Restrooms,” excited voices drifted from the diner.
Now fully alert, Hewitt patrolled the interior of the establishment and entered the section where a few booths and a long counter announced the restaurant. There, at the far end, he spotted a crowd, including the cashier, gathered around the small television mounted on the wall. Again, he had the bone-chilling sense that something was awry.
Angie, the waitress, covered her mouth with her hands as if in shock. Carlos was rocking from toe to heel, his arms crossed in stress-induced knots across his chest. Henry was shaking his head in disgust as all eyes were glued to the television and the broadcast received courtesy of the satellite dish on the roof.
“What’s going on?” Hewitt asked, strolling with purpose toward the throng.
“Yellowstone is erupting,” someone said, pointing toward the TV. “And it’s a big one.”
Nearly an hour passed before the sheriff realized the muscles in his legs were growing stiff from standing at rigid attention, his eyes mesmerized by the events materializing on the screen. He was so enthralled, he hadn’t even bothered to hike his pants or ask for a cup of coffee.
The disaster was hypnotic in a way, the small group of onlookers barely managing to utter the occasional, “For the love of God,” or “Unbelievable,” comment as a parade of apocalyptic images scrolled across the square glass. At 90 minutes, Carlos summed it up, saying, “Thank the good Lord above that this is all happening five hundred miles away.”
That sense of security-via-distance soon evaporated, however, as the cable news network began interviewing various experts on volcanic upheavals. “This catastrophe is heading directly for us,” Hewitt grumbled after another hour. “We’ve got to do something,” he added a few minutes later.
Dire predictions and computer generated models now dominated the broadcast, countless scientists touting how the weather patterns would certainly spread Yellowstone’s output across North America … and perhaps the world.
“The only empirical example in modern history that we have to compare with this incident is the 1883 eruption of Krakatoa in the South Pacific. That event is believed to have disrupted weather patterns across the globe for nearly a decade,” proclaimed one grey-bearded intellectual. “If Yellowstone continues to spew ash for an extended period of time, we could be witnessing an extinction level event.”
