Riding The Apocalypse (15 page)

I was still having a hard time grasping the graciousness of my fellow man—maybe I needed to rethink my schtick.

“We are headed to Monterey and we’d like to make it by nightfall. I think we are going to head out after we take breaks and eat something…but thanks,” I replied.

“Suit yourself, but you are gonna have to double back about a mile and get out onto Main Street to get outta here,” Aaron said as he pointed to Highway 17. “Though I don’t think you will get far over 17, that shit is a mess on a good day, let alone the Apocalypse on a weekday.”

Everyone is a comedian in the End Times, I guess.

“We are gonna take Lakeview to Bear Creek, then Highway 9,” Max said. “But we appreciate your hospitality.” Laid-back Max was back, he had been looking a little intense the past few hours. But he flashed his genuine smile to the CHP officer.

Thank God.

“So what’s the latest? We ran into a guy on a Fat Bob down the—”

“Augie? How is he doing? Did he have a cat with him?” Aaron chuckled.

“No, not yet, but he said he was going to town for his girlfriend—”

“I would go to the Panama Canal swathed in butter during the malaria season for a shot at his girlfriend,” Aaron said with a grin.

“Ha! One of those.” Buell laughed.

“You have no idea,” Aaron added. “Well, I heard on the radio today that the San Diego refuge is pretty stable, and there is another smaller refuge area up north, Redding, I think? Hell, we even had a transmission from some news station in Youngstown, Ohio, earlier, lasted for almost five minutes.”

“President?” I asked.

“Haven’t heard him on the radio or anywhere else. It seems like more small independent places are starting to pop in and out. Look, fellas, the large cities got hit hard. I think this is gonna be a grassroots campaign for a while, if you know what I mean. I heard that some of the smaller internet servers are starting to pop back up again. I think the initial shock is wearing off. Now that they know what is causing the problems besides the bites, there is a chance we’re gonna be getting some services back soon. Nevertheless, I am not coming off this mountain anytime soon. Look, I gotta run. Make yourselves at home, people here are pretty gracious. Be cool and don’t make me shoot you,” Aaron said as he tapped the sidearm in his shoulder holster and smiled.

“Scouts honor!” Buell saluted and flipped his visor back down.

I looked down the face of the dam at all the monsters clamoring and moaning, reaching up toward the partygoers.

Max followed my gaze and kept his voice even. “You know, at one time, every one of those fuckers was somebody’s pride and joy, being bounced on a knee ’n’ shit. That son of a bitch is gonna pay.”

I realized that it wasn’t just my battle anymore.

Buell flipped his visor back up, looked at me, and pointed. “Main Street, here we come!”

“I am gonna eat something first, if you guys don’t mind?” Max asked.

“Hell yeah, it gives me a chance to look around for Augie’s girlfriend.” Buell cackled.

“Didn’t Aaron tell us to stay out of trouble?” I laughed. “You wanna get shot? Chances are, we are gonna shoot each other by accident before we shoot anyone else, but if you wanna increase the odds, so be it.”

“I smell good food, wanna go mingle?” Buell asked.

“I am good with that, but let’s be ready to roll in an hour, tops,” Max added.

“I will be back here in one hour,” Buell said. “I smell barbecue and will not be denied.”

“Okay, an hour it is,” I said, still sitting on my bike, looking over the maps, or “paper GPS” as Buell called them.

I sat there for a few minutes, people-watching and admiring the scantily clad women along the shore. That is the thing about California, even if it’s late fall, you can still see can summer clothes, or less. Times are changing.

There were kids jumping in the water, having a terrific time. It reminded me of my youth, and how a large body of water could cure most ills. I also saw many people sitting in groups, not having such an enjoyable time. I watched a little boy curled up with his mom, sitting on the grass, staring at a military duffel bag. He was just staring blankly at the bag lying on the ground. I watched them for a few moments, and neither let go of each other, and the little boy never took his eyes off that duffel bag. “A picture tells a thousand words” seemed appropriate here. I didn’t have a camera, and I didn’t want to capture that moment anyway. We had almost become desensitized by all the death, and the undead caricatures of real people.

As I looked further down the lake, I could see men in small boats holding guns, trolling around the hillside. I suppose a monster could fall into the lake from a trail above, though I am not sure of the monsters’ swimming or underwater breathing ability. I would need to ask someone about that. I don’t think they breathe, or at least it wasn’t a necessary function. I had seen them walk with their torsos no longer completely intact. I realized I answered my own question. One less thing.

I could see Buell was sitting at a table already eating something and using his hands to tell a story. The people looked captivated and were hanging on his every word. Sometimes I wish I was that guy, the guy who could just relax and let go. Put all my chips in the middle and go with the flow. Maybe if I was, Em—

“Hey, are you lost?” said a woman who appeared from behind me.

“Huh? What?”

Smooth, Remy, real smooth.

“Oh, sorry, was just people-watching while I take a break. Sorry, I am fine,” I said suavely, fumbling to take my gloves off.

“Katie,” she said, putting her hand out.

Looking at Katie was a breath of fresh air. She was a tad shorter than my type, yet attractive without a doubt. She sported a dark brown bob haircut that needed a little attention, but the disheveled look worked for her. Katie looked to be in her mid-thirties, but if she had asked me I would have said late twenties. Her eyes were big and brown, and her outfit suggested she was the outdoorsy type. I have a saying, and this is mine, not lifted from some other modern day Charlesosopher:
If you can pull off khaki shorts and hiking boots as a woman, you are in the club, period.

“Remy, nice to meet you,” I said as I extended my hand.

Firm grip. Yep, outdoor girl.

“So, what brings you to our digs? You headed out or are you gonna be here awhile?”

“Well, I am on my way to Monterey with a few friends. You?”

“I am here with my dad.  We live just down the hill, but decided to head for high ground when everything went to shit,” she said with a slightly somber tone. “Sorry for my language, been a bit rough ’round here.”

All I could think about was how well she said “shit
.
”
Most women can’t pull that off. She wasn’t Emily, but it felt good to chat with someone from the opposite sex.

I put my gloves and helmet on the bike and walked with her down toward the tent city by the water.

“Did you lose anyone?” she asked abruptly. “I am sorry, that was—”

“It’s okay, not that I know of so far, been hard to get in touch, you?”

“I lost my mom,” Katie said, looking at the ground, then out onto the lake. “I didn’t see it, but my dad did, and he is pretty shaken up. She just turned all of a sudden. I haven’t had the flu shot, but Mom, being older, was one of the first. I guess I still think I am invincible, and haven’t bothered much with those. My goodness, so much for small talk,” she said, looking at her hiking boots.

Katie had a lot to say. Maybe it was nervous energy, I didn’t know. One thing I did know was there weren’t many men around the camp. They were either in the hills, holding guns, or out in the field.

She didn’t have a ring on her finger, and even though I wasn’t terribly interested in starting something up at this point, I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t stepping on anyone’s toes. I almost felt guilty looking at her cleavage as we walked. She was definitely hot, I mean attractiveness-wise. Her chest glistened, and while the world was collapsing around me, I still found time to perv a dish.

“So where is your significant other? Out hunting and gathering?”

Why did I just ask her that?

“I know you are going to find this absolutely shocking,” she said with an engaging smirk, “but I am not spoken for.”

I feigned shock as I looked past her to see Buell looking at me, giving me the thumbs-up. I shook my head at him and looked back at Katie.

“We are heading out in less than an hour, but if all goes well, we will head back this way. Would it be presumptuous for me to ask you out on a post-dated…ummm…date?” I asked.

“I can’t make any guarantees, as lots of motorcycle guys come through here these days,” she said as she batted her eyelids.

“Fair enough, Katie.” I smiled at her. “Look, I need to grab a bite from my bag and find my buddies. I hate to keep—”

“It’s fine, Remy. Lovely to meet you. I need to get back to my dad anyway. It was gratifying to flirt a little and take the edge off. Don’t worry, it’s fine,” she said as she put her hand out.

In an act of complete daftness, I kissed her hand instead of shaking it. What the hell was I doing? I will tell you though, it felt right to feel normal, if only for a few moments. Chivalry is not dead in this post-Apocalyptic world, as far as I was concerned. If Emily taught me one thing, it was to make your mark, and don’t wait around. How many more things would Emily teach me before I let her go? It had only been a few days, but I had become somewhat desensitized. Kind of hard to sit around and feel sorry for myself.

Besides, I had business to take care of.

Katie walked away, and I did my best not to be too obvious as I glanced at her backside, simultaneously pulling a Clif Bar out of my bag for cover fire. I rolled my bike under a tree to get some shade. Then I sat down, back against the tree and looking at my watch, realized the fun was almost over.

I heard a scream, then a gunshot. I turned to my right just in time to see a monster fall backward into the water along the shoreline. A shaking woman holding a smoking shotgun looked back and shouted to a man who came running from down the shore.

“It walked right out of the water!”

Chapter 18

“Hell yeah, that guy owes us one!”

“Well, that was creepy as fuck,” Buell said as he walked up and handed me a barbecue chicken drumstick.

“Yeah, I was wondering that, whether they can go in the water, or swim,” I replied.

“The lady said she heard it come out of the lake. That musta been scary to get snuck up on like that.”

“Good thing she kept her calm and is a good shot,” I said. “I probably would have missed.”

“Not with that shotgun she had, she blew the thing’s head off. I don’t think even you are that incompetent. You know, it might not be a terrible idea to get those guns out and practice your accuracy, Rem. Maybe we should stop on the trail when we rest, and pop a few off,” Buell suggested.

“I agree. Let’s make a plan when Max gets here. Where is that guy?”

“I just saw him napping under a tree. I kicked his boot and gave him some chicken, he’ll be right here.”

“How do you do it, Buell? How do you find these people? I can’t find shit. If I drop my keys on a gymnasium floor, I can’t find ’em, but you can find people willing to give away barbecue during the Apocalypse,” I complained. “Not that I am not grateful.”

It tasted phenomenal.

“Hey, guys, we are rolling soon, no?”

“In a minute, Max,” I said as I started to check and secure my bags. “We have tons of time. It’s only eight-thirty in the morning; I would still be sleeping if not for the whole”—I made air quotes—“Apocalypse thing.”

“I am just anxious to ride Highway 9 to be honest,” Max said.

Highway 9 is a motorcycle riders’ haven along the Santa Cruz Mountains’ inner hills. Motorcyclists come in from all over the country to ride Highway 9 and see the bucolic scenery. I have to admit, the thought of riding 9 with no speed fear of CHP did seem enticing.

Almost on cue Buell chimed in. “Yeah, but there may be all kinds of crashed cars and traffic ’n’ shit on the road now, so we still gotta keep it under control.”

“Pretty rich coming from you,” I replied.

We all checked our packs, and said our goodbyes to the few we had met. I didn’t see Katie.

Fuck.

We took the face of the dam back the way we came, and headed out onto the Par Course south toward Main Street, where we would cut under the freeway. As we slowly rode down the dirt road, leaving the dam, we saw Augie coming the other way. He waved and grinned ear to ear. He had a kid on his backseat, and a cat carrier strapped to his side bag.

Stud.

We took the left under Highway 17, which looked like a parking lot from what I could see, onto Main Street in Los Gatos. Los Gatos is a pretty highbrow (or high-end?) area of California, and if you are highbrow in California, that is saying something. It is not entirely uncommon to see Porsches, Ferraris, and BMW’s lining the streets on any given day.

Not today.

When we hit Main Street, it looked like a ghost town. Los Gatos is full of old style buildings, shops, and boutiques, and this only added to the ghost town look. There was an occasional monster slowly meandering through the streets. They reminded me of tumbleweeds in a deserted town.

Normally well-kept and one of the most pristine cities in the Bay area, it was frightening to see windows broken and debris strewn everywhere. This city had become a looters’ gold mine. I was not surprised, with so many high ticket items in the aristocratic city. There were a few people still running in and out of the shops on Main Street, too fast to be monsters. It was a chilling sight to behold. It seemed odd to me though. What do you think the demand will be for a Prada purse? I would probably just loot an Old Navy or a bourbon factory. A pragmatist to the end, I guess.

I counted three fire hydrants shooting water toward the sky in the few minutes we were on the main drag. “Two o’clock,” Buell said from his position at the point.

Buell’s alert knocked me out of my daze. I tensed up, applied two fingers to the brake, and turned my head to the left.

“Lambo, baby!”

“Jesus Christ, Buell, I don’t care about Lamborghinis, or any sports car at the moment,” I said.

“From now on, only monsters get attention, got that?” Max shouted.

We laughed, but Max was right. This was serious, but that was Buell, and I wouldn’t have him any other way. Ever since I have known Buell, he has had a sense of levity about him that I wish I had. Don’t get me wrong, I can crack wise, but Buell is on another level. He isn’t even always funny, it is just that he has the charisma to pull off the bad jokes as well. An important characteristic, if you ask me.

I met Buell at a motorcycle show in San Francisco about ten years ago. He was standing next to an old Indian Motorcycle, looking closely at the motor. Now, there are many people who like to pretend that they like these old motorcycles, just to appear cool or to impress people. You know the type, kind of like all those posers out there who pretend to like free form jazz. Or those guys who spell posers with a “u.”

Not Buell.

Actually, he was Randy Seitzer back then. He wasn’t Buell until he bought that beautiful pearl white 1125R off the showroom floor. Then he was never Randy again. When I walked up to him, he gave me a brief history of the Indian Motorcycle brand without actually taking a pause to breathe. He introduced himself, and we talked about motorcycles and a little about everything else over five dollar beers. This may seem reasonable now, but at the time, that was expensive for a beer.

And I am going to guess twenty each. That was the approximate number of horrible pickup lines that emanated from our mouths during that afternoon. I am not going to say who was more successful that day, I will just say I still haven’t passed him. He looked eighteen years old, though he was in his twenties, and now he looks in his early thirties, and he is in his forties.

Bastard.

Buell chimed in, “Okay, guys, we gotta jump on the trail here, we can take this fire road to Bear Creek, and then we’ll pick up Highway 9 after that.”

“Cool,” we both answered.

This was where I would shine. These fire roads are used for emergency access, and as fire breaks in case of forest fires. These roads are wide open, full of gravel and dirt. My KLR was right at home here, along with Max’s Ducati, which also possessed a proclivity for the dirt. Buell’s bike was the one ill suited for this road, possessing street tires and race ergonomics to boot.

But we still couldn’t pass him.

I could not believe it. I was mesmerized as he went through the turns at a breakneck clip, spitting gravel from his street tires and looking like a flat tracker. It should not be that easy for anyone. I smiled and felt my cheeks pinch the padding on the inside of the helmet. Credit where credit is due. It was a joy to watch, a symphony on a motorcycle.

Needless to say, we made excellent time out here as there wasn’t much worry of running into a traffic jam or even monsters up on these fire roads. As we crested the hills, I frequently looked at Highway 17 to my left, through the trees. The highway was packed the whole way, with people milling about their cars. I saw patches of smoke, and even an occasional car fire. I didn’t have time to stop and see what was going on down there, and I honestly didn’t want to know, I just wanted to ride.

I also wanted to visit Senator Riley.

For the next fifteen minutes, the ride felt like a road trip on a trail, except Buell was riding his street bike instead of his dual sport.

Didn’t matter to him.

After a short and brisk ride, we hit Bear Creek road, which is paved but extremely tight in the corners. Bear Creek leads to many mountain homes, and can have fairly heavy traffic at times, so we slowed and proceeded with caution—or at least Buell’s version of caution. All quiet from my earpiece, we were lost in our own thoughts.

As we made our way south, we encountered a few cars and motorcycles on the road, coming the opposite direction. The looks on people’s faces were not the usual smiles and waves. Many were white-knuckled drivers staring purposefully ahead. On the bright side, we didn’t get flashed headlights from other drivers, which would be a warning.

We made it all the way to Highway 9 uneventfully, then turned left and headed south. Highway 9 opened into long sweeping turns and open roads, and we could make excellent time, as long as we stayed out of trouble.

Monterey, here we come. We were halfway, only fifty miles from the office supply store, according to my GPS, which was still functioning well. Highway 9 is a fantastic ride, and I wanted to enjoy it, but for obvious reasons I was on the edge.

“Hey, guys, gotta make a stop now,” Max chimed in on the mic. “Buell, pull us off here, please.’

“Ayup!”

I looked ahead, and the sign read
Highway Nine Hole Pitch ’n’ Putt Golf Course.
I bet somebody thought that was pretty cute when they came up with that name. I had been there many times with Max, Buell, and Rich over the years. Max even worked there when he was in college, he loved that place. As adults, we would go have a few beers and drive golf balls once in a while. I instantly knew why Max was stopping, and I’m sure Buell did too.

Uncle Frank.

There were two things you could count on around here; people traverse these roads too fast, and Uncle Frank would be working the bar, telling war stories. Uncle Frank owned the small golf course, and was somewhat of a local legend for more than making a great bloody mary. Uncle Frank was a WWII veteran. He was one of the dive bomber squadron pilots that surprised the three Japanese aircraft carriers during the Battle of Midway. Frank and his squadron caught the Japanese with their planes arming from bombs to torpedoes in between sorties. With all of the exposed weaponry on the decks and in the hangars, the carriers were highly flammable and sitting ducks. When Uncle Frank and his allies dropped their bombs and torpedoes, the live ammo not yet loaded on the Japanese planes went off in a chain reaction. It was an incredible stroke of fortune for the U.S. and a devastating loss for the Japanese and Axis Powers. In just a few short minutes, those three squadrons destroyed three of the four Japanese aircraft carriers. This turned the tide of the entire Pacific war. Of all the stories Uncle Frank tells, that is my favorite because Uncle Frank’s recollection is so vivid. Yeah, neither Buell nor I said a word when Max suggested we exit at the golf course.

As we rode down the quarter mile road off Highway 9 toward the golf course, we saw no one. There were only a few cars in the parking lot. One SUV with the trunk open and a golf cart abutted against the rear bumper. Not a soul around. We parked our bikes outside the clubhouse, making sure to circle around so the motorcycles were facing back toward the exit. Buell was the first and we followed his lead. He knew how to get a move on; he quickly set our exit formation.

“Let’s go check the clubhouse first, Uncle Frank’s office is behind the bar,” Max said as he dismounted in half the time it took Buell and I to. “You guys, I am sorry we had to stop—”

“Cut the sanctimonious crap, Max, we love that old guy too,” Buell said. “Least we could do, shit, if it wasn’t for him and the rest of McCluster’s guys, we would have yen in our wallets.”

“McClusky,” Max corrected.

“Shit, Buell, that was close,” I said. “I am gonna give you that one, McCluster, McClusky.”

“That should definitely be a gimme,” Buell said, proud of his reference to a golf term at a golf course.

“You guys coming?” Max asked impatiently. He already had his helmet off, tire iron in hand, and was heading for the doors as he spoke.

“Right behind you,” I said, as Buell and I jogged toward Max.

There were glass double doors in front. The awning and trellis flush with vines. The doors leading into the clubhouse were both wide open but unbroken. Max led us through the doors with caution. Holding one of the handguns at my side, I flicked off the safety and pointed it down as I followed. I felt uncomfortable holding the gun, but I have to admit, it felt more empowering than a tire iron. Buell had the other gun in his hand, and he looked infinitely more relaxed than I did.

“Safety off?” Buell whispered.

“Aye.”

As we entered the dimly lit clubhouse, I strained to get my eyes adjusted. The light from the open doors gave us enough to see the outlines of the clubhouse, but there were still dark pockets of space. The foyer was lined with golf club racks, a few sets of disheveled clubs littered the floor. As I peered into the clubhouse, I noticed chairs and tables scattered in the usually tidy dining room. Looked like there had been a quick mass exodus. With the furniture toppled and strewn about, the rustic clubhouse dining room had the look of a saloon after a brawl. The wood paneled walls and western style décor made for a bar scene straight out of
Rio Bravo
. Yeah, I looked up at the rafters just in case.

The left side of the clubhouse was all glass, with double doors in the middle of the glass panels, allowing a full view of the first hole on the course. I stole a quick glance through the doors and saw the first tee box, and, aside from a tipped golf bag, it was empty. There was a set of clubs lying on the grass. One of the clubs was outside the bag and broken in half. I saw what looked like bloodstains on the grass. I had seen that before.