The Onyx Seed - A Story of Survival by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 12

They were up by three o'clock that afternoon. Lucas was especially anxious to leave as Marty arranged everything needed to make a pot of coffee. “Hey, Luke,” he called. “Lucas had been pacing in the hallway, still haunted by the previous night’s events at the gas station.”

“Luke,” Marty repeated. “You alright?” Lucas stopped in the middle of the hallway. His attention ripped from the anxiety he felt by the sound of Marty’s voice.

“Oh, yeah,” he answered. “I just had a hard time sleeping. You know, after what happened last night.”

“Alright,” Marty began. “So, you remember how to do this?”

Marty laid out the arrangement of parts in anticipation of the perfect cup of coffee. “Uh, yeah,” Lucas answered.

He sat down across from Marty, assembled everything in blinding speed and within five minutes, poured two mugs of steaming coffee. “That was quick,” Marty said.

“Well,” Lucas replied. “It’s not that hard.” Lucas tapped his fingers nervously on the kitchen table. Having noticed this, Marty looked up with an expression of concern.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked. Without pausing, Lucas glanced over at him. The tension he had been feeling made its way to the surface, expressing itself through tense lips and a furrowed brow.

“I just want to get the fuck out of here,” Lucas answered.

“We’re leaving as soon as it gets dark, I promise,” Marty said.

He had a good idea of what Lucas was going through, as he briefly thought back to his first night patrol in Iraq. Fear can be confronted. But it can never be eliminated by any amount of training. And in the sands of the Iraqi night, even the rocks can be perceived to move by themselves. Marty was well aware that fear is a very powerful emotion capable of twisting one’s sense of time. Reflecting itself back into the mind as a display of living shadows, bent on pushing us across the gray line of insanity into self-destruction. Fear is one of the things that makes us human. We carry it with us as a reminder that we are alive.

Marty took this as an opportunity to get Lucas redirected away from his anxieties. He brought out a road map of the Los Angeles area and traced the route they’d be taking. Initially, he wanted to travel the roads that saw the least amount of traffic. But that could take hours and could put them at risk of getting lost. Especially while traveling at night. Instead, Marty opted for speed over distance. They would take route 101 east to route 60. Then, onto route 72, passing East L.A., Montebello and Pico Rivera. This would bring them into Whittier and turning north onto Painter Ave., they would follow it up into the parking lot of the Hellman Wilderness Park. By car, it was fifteen miles and a twenty-minute drive. If their trip from the camping outlet was any indication, the roads would be largely empty, making for easier travel. Lucas briefly studied the map.

“Have you ever been to this place before?”

“Yeah, I have,” Marty answered. “Just a couple of day trips.”

Lucas nodded, still studying the maps. “So, you know this place pretty well, right?”

“Not all of it,” Marty answered. “But I know a good place to hide for a while.”

Lucas wiped the sleep out of his eyes before taking a sip of coffee.

“So, how long do you think we should be there?” he asked.

Marty sat back in his chair with his hands behind his head.

“Well,” he began. “I thought we’d take a couple of days, relax and then start getting organized for the trip east. Sound like a plan?”

Lucas nodded while letting out a sigh of relief. “I’ve got to tell you. I cannot wait to get the fuck out of here,” he said. “I’ve never liked this city. At least going to school gave me something else to think about.”

With that statement, Lucas reminded himself that college had become a thing of the past. He briefly thought about everything he could have done, had it not been for the infection. His thoughts broke away into a curious, less relevant idea.

“Marty,” he said. “What do think happened?” Marty leaned forward toward the table. “What do mean?” he asked.

“The infection,” Lucas replied. “Do you think someone just walked into the country with it or do you think it’s something else?”

Marty sipped at his coffee. He knew this conversation would happen, eventually. An event of this magnitude doesn’t happen without people asking questions and Marty had his suspicions as soon as the President gave his speech.

“To be honest,” Luke, he said. “I think we’ve been attacked. The entire country.”

He paused a moment, allowing Lucas to fully absorb his answer.

“Think about it,” he continued. “Have you ever heard of a disease that could kill this quickly?”

“Well, the black death did that,” Lucas answered. “But, how was that different?” Marty asked. Lucas thought hard about the question, falling back on a history class he’d taken in college. If there is a single truth common to all people, it is that once one receives an education, it can never be taken away or swept aside by anything.

“Well,” Lucas began. “It was brought into Europe, supposedly, with rats on Chinese ships. People were already starving from crop failure and there were so many crowded into the cities that the streets turned into open sewers. They were already sick.”

“Okay,” Marty replied. “Are any of those things true now?”

It didn’t take long for Lucas to reach the epiphany of realizing that the infection that had turned L.A. into a landfill of human decay was likely not an act of nature.

“So, who would have done this?” he asked. “Well,” Marty began. “Since there are so many people out there who hate us, I suppose it could be anyone. Probably a middle eastern country.”

“Do you think it’s just L.A.?” Lucas asked. He was hoping that if the infection was, in fact, a bioterrorist attack, it would be limited to Los Angeles. At least, there would be a chance that he could get his life back, maybe start school again. But, considering the amount of devastation it left behind, Lucas wasn’t going to get his hopes up. In fact, he had come to the point where he expected to see death wherever they went.

“Don’t you think that whoever did this would know that it would affect everyone? They had to know that it was going to come back to them, right?”

“Honestly, Luke,” Marty began. “Some people just don’t think that way. I’ve seen more than a few people who’ve blown themselves up, just to take out a handful of civilians for the sake of whatever they believe in and since they’re willing to die for what they believe, the consequences don’t seem to matter.”

Lucas stared out the window, into the darkening L.A. skyline, unable to believe that anyone would want to destroy the whole of humankind over an idea. Every religion, belief system and philosophy ever conceived during the briefness of human history has been based on only one thing. An idea, regardless of how complex it becomes during the act of recording it. Through the writing of the world’s many sacred texts, all of it still boils down to a single idea. It may get lost in translation or politics, but the idea remains and as any act of terrorism demonstrates, an idea can be a dangerous thing.

A crescent moon had begun its steady climb over the postmortem L.A. cityscape. Marty and Lucas waited in silence for the night to blanket the earth with enough darkness that they could safely travel beneath its cover.

“Is there anything you want to take with you?” Marty asked. “Because after we leave, that’s it.” Lucas took a moment to consider Marty’s question. “Like what?” he asked. “I can’t really think of anything.”

He knew they weren’t coming back and wasn’t sure that he wanted to bring anything that might represent the hopelessness of a dead city.

“Well,” Marty began. “We’re leaving soon, so think about it a little.”

Lucas nodded his head, but inside, he had already made up his mind. He wanted nothing to do with L.A., especially now that it had become little more than an above-ground open grave. A meeting place for ghosts, both living and dead. The only thing Lucas wanted was to leave. However, he would take with him the few pictures he had of his mother and brother. If he wanted to remember anything, it was them. Everything else left him feeling both angry and sick.

It was about seven o'clock when they carried their mountain bikes and packs down the back stairs, stopping where the alley met the sidewalk. Marty, having taken the lead, glanced around the corner of the building and seeing nothing, only the darkness as he pushed his bicycle out into the street. He motioned Lucas out from the alley while putting his pack on. Buckling the belt and chest harness. Lucas was a bit more cautious, as he scanned the windows of the nearby buildings. His experience at the gas left him feeling more than a little uneasy, as though he expected to see a face at every window. Marty helped him on with his pack and climbing onto their mountain bikes; they started out for Whittier.

Marty had memorized the route they were taking, but getting to Route 101 meant going through one of the worse parts of L.A.s inner city. If they encountered survivors there, their escape could be cut short permanently. Marty decided it would be better to ride through the area as quickly as possible. And without traffic or stop lights, traveling through the darkened streets would be easy, as long as they weren’t confronted. Marty was very aware that disaster often generates desperation, producing people who find it too easy to kill for nothing more than a can of beans and a quart of water. During their conversation regarding the beginnings of the infection, Lucas had also mentioned that as the Black Death burned its way through fourteenth-century Europe, many began consuming the dead flesh of their deceased children. Under dire circumstances, people can become capable of anything. Eat or be eaten. Kill or be killed. Having been in Iraq, Marty had seen humanity at its lowest and understood that war offered the best, if not most effective illustration of human irrationality. And having witnessed it first-hand was the catalyst that led him into a fairly isolated life. He saw the infection as simply another war to be fought.

The tires of their mountain bikes rolled almost silently across the pavement as Marty and Lucas pedaled toward Route 101. Marty had plotted a straight course through the inner city. It would be a short trip, but it wasn’t the distance he was concerned about. He reminded Lucas that once they started, they couldn’t stop for anything. If either of them dropped something along the side of the street, it would have to be left behind. Stopping in this part of the city could likely open an opportunity for trouble. And Marty wanted to get out of L.A. as much as Lucas did. Pedaling their mountain bikes at top speed, they focused their attention some twenty blocks ahead, occasionally glancing to one side or another for anything that could constitute a potential problem. Like other parts of L.A., this area had been reputed for gang activity, violence, drugs, and guns. In life before the infection, it also had a history of police involvement, as gang members were often taken into custody for everything from distribution to robbery, rape, and murder. But these streets were now frighteningly quiet as Marty and Lucas continued toward Route 101. They were moving quickly enough that if anyone heard them, they would be gone before being seen. Marty led the way as they flew through the streets, leaving nothing behind but a shadowy blur filled with a nearly inaudible resistance against the cold darkness that once echoed with the sounds of violent turmoil and gunfire.

Within ten minutes, they reached the on-ramp of Route 101. They felt both surprised and relieved to have arrived at their destination, without encountering other survivors. Of course, the inner city was not the place where one wanted to encounter anyone. They stopped at the top of the on-ramp and gazed back at the place they’d risked their lives to pass through. Lucas was already winded. “Jesus Christ!” he said. “That was scary as hell.”

“Tell me about it,” Marty replied. “Did you see anyone back there?”

“To be honest,” Lucas began. “I was just looking where I was going.”

He turned and looked down the highway. “Is this where we’re supposed to be?” he asked. “Yeah,” Marty answered. “It should be fairly easy from here.”

Lucas put his foot down on one of the pedals and continued down Route 101, with Marty close behind. “I guess this is why we didn’t pick up headlights for the bikes, huh?” he said.

Marty rode up on his left side.

“Now, you’re getting it,” he said. Within another fifteen minutes, they found themselves turning onto Route 60. And by the time they reached Route 72, they had left East L.A. and passed Montebello and Pico Rivera. But just as they entered Whittier, they stopped for one last look at Los Angeles. The houses, buildings and high rises had become indistinguishable from each other beneath the haunting darkness that had so suddenly fallen upon them, seemingly out of nowhere. Lucas was not interested in saying any goodbyes. “I’ll be happy never to see this fucking place again,” he said.

Marty, however, had nothing to say to the city that, for so long, had gnawed away at his soul. Leaving him with a life of singular emptiness. Now, thinking back a few days, to the overnight he spent in the mountains, he realized that the one thing he wished for had come true. He no longer had to depend on a job. He could go his own way. Live wherever he wanted. He would never have to see another city again. But that kind of life comes at a price and Marty knew the risks. He also realized that avoiding those risks meant living in almost complete isolation and self-reliance. His only concern, now, was Lucas. He would have to learn a great deal in a short amount of time. He would have to become strong and resourceful. Marty had no doubt that Lucas was able to learn quickly. It was his fortitude Marty was concerned about. Was Lucas strong enough to deal with the aftershocks that lay in the wake of a society in ruins? All the intelligence in the world is of no use if you fall apart at the seams.

As with other surrounding areas, Whittier is a small suburb of Los Angeles. A quiet college town, largely devoid of crime. Whittier College, like most colleges, followed the Jeffersonian idea that in order to facilitate learning, an institute of higher education should exist away from the distractions of modernity. It is likely that Whittier was, in fact, constructed for the college. Marty and Lucas entered Whittier and turning left, rode north on Painter Ave. From the moment they entered the town, they immediately realized that this far from the battlegrounds of L.A. there were no tenement buildings. The air smelled clean and carried a hint of freshly cut grass. While on their way from Los Angeles, they were stunned by the absence of any lights. Even as they passed through Montebello and Pico Rivera, there was not a single light, flashlight, or candle flame to be seen anywhere. After witnessing the dark, ghostly silence of L.A., Marty fully expected that the surrounding suburbs would be trapped in the same darkness that had befallen the city. But he still found the sight more than a little unnerving.

The ride down Painter Avenue was tense, yet uneventful. There were a few cars left at odd angles in the street. Their occupants slumped over in their seats. In spite of these grim scenes, Marty and Lucas did not stop. Offering any degree of assistance would be pointless and potentially lethal. They had already seen enough death to last a lifetime. The tires of their mountain bikes hummed over the pavement as they continued along Painter Avenue. It seemed like only minutes had passed as they rode into the parking lot of the Whittier Wilderness Park. The park was almost the size of the town, so finding a place to hide for a few days would be relatively easy. They stopped briefly where the parking lot met the trailhead. Off to one side was a map of the park tacked to a bulletin board. The pitch-black had rendered it unreadable, but Marty had camped there once or twice before and knew which trail to take and where he wanted to go. After a few sips of water, they began the ride into the park. The trail sloped noticeably uphill, and it wasn’t long before Lucas felt the tension building in his legs. “Jesus Christ,” he exclaimed. “And you do this for fun?”

The first half of the trail lay in a valley before starting up what could be considered a small mountain. They stopped again for water at the far end of the valley. “So,” Lucas began. “Where are we going to set up?” Marty grinned as he returned his water bottle to its belt-mounted holder.

“Up there,” he answered, pointing to the summit. Lucas followed Marty’s finger to the blackened outline of the rocky summit.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he asked. “We can’t just camp here?”

Lucas was far from being an outdoorsman, and Marty expected him to take issue with the terrain. “Luke,” he began. “Let’s say, for a moment, that we camp here. If someone comes up that trail toward us, what would our chances be of getting out quickly?” Lucas found the question easy to answer but still felt frustrated by the necessity of having to pedal a bicycle up a small mountain while having fifty pounds of camping gear strapped to his back. “You didn’t tell me about this part,” he said. Lucas was slightly annoyed by Marty’s withholding of this particular piece of information. “Once we’re on the top,” Marty began. “No one will notice us, and we’ll have a clear view of everything and I did tell you that we’d get you in shape, right?” They began riding along the switchbacks that wound their way up the slopes. It didn’t take long for Lucas to concede defeat as he got off his mountain bike and began walking. Marty, however, had hiked to the top of several mountains in the L.A. area and pedaled past Lucas with ease.

“You doing okay?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Lucas answered, with a bit of sarcasm. “Doing just great! Thanks!”

Not long after this, Marty also dismounted. It wasn’t that he was tired. He wanted to be sure that Lucas didn’t fall too far behind. Especially in the dark. It was well into the night when they reached the top. Lucas was exhausted and collapsed to the barren, rocky ground while Marty seemed to have energy to spare. Opening his eyes, Lucas was awestruck by the night sky. The broad canvas of distant nocturnal lights was something he had never seen before. In its previous state, the well-lit City of Los Angeles hid many things from beneath the rows of glowing street lights. The view of the night’s celestial sparkle was one of them, and Lucas was left hypnotized. “Hey,” Marty called. “We got things to do.” With great effort, Lucas brought himself to a sitting position. Every muscle in his body screamed in fiery pain, refusing to move in the smallest degree. “You mean I can’t just sleep here?” he asked. Marty was unpacking the tents and had started setting up camp among a sparse collection of Pine trees. “C’mon, get up,” Marty said. “I can’t do everything myself and mornings going to be here soon. You can sleep all you want when the tents are up.”

The ground was rocky and bare, with only a few thin stands of Pine lay scattered along the hilltop. The lack of topsoil meant there would be no runoff, so Marty and Lucas would have to rely on the water they brought. At least, for the next couple of days. After that, they would stock up on as many items on the list as possible. Including water. Even before they left L.A., Marty realized that their journey east would take them through some of the harshest desert conditions in the world. And if it was one thing they would need most, it was water. But for now, sleep had become equally necessary as the relief of leaving L.A. prompted the release of anticipation and the healing effects that come with the sensation of having a pillow under one’s head. Each in their own tent, Marty and Lucas quickly drifted off. For the first time since the infection began, they were able to sleep. Their minds no longer haunted by the ghosts that wandered the boneyard L.A. had become. The stench of burning flesh had been replaced by the cool ocean breeze, wandering its way through the peaks and valleys of the wilderness, just east of Los Angeles. There were no doorways to camouflage the eyes of the near-dead, those who continued to live an existence without hope or the strength to survive. Everything of the last few days had been relegated to the oblivious world of dreams, pushed back into forgetful hibernation.