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

Chapter 15

Going west, they left Whittier and started north on route 605 after a short drive on Whittier Boulevard. Reaching route 39 by 210, Marty and Lucas entered Angeles National Forest. It was the perfect temporary hiding place until they could start east the next morning. Route 39 was also known as San Gabriel Canyon Road. It snaked its way up and around the curves of the forest, through acres of pine and long stretches of chiseled valleys. Somewhere along the way, Lucas drifted off to sleep in the van’s passenger seat. Marty glanced over at him as Morris Reservoir came into view. He knew that Lucas still had no idea of the true gravity of their situation, in spite of the things he had already witnessed. According to the map, or at least, Marty’s estimation of it, the place he was looking for would be on the right, several miles north of the dam. As he continued driving, his mind was busy preparing for their journey east, making a mental list of what they still needed. They would be moving almost continually, never stopping at any one place for too long. The only real issue, at this point, was whether the van would survive the trip. In the middle of the southwestern desert, there was no contingency plan. If the van broke down, they’d both be as good as dead. Passing the dam, Marty called to Lucas, who still sat in slumber, his closed eyes facing the window.

“Hey,” Luke!

Lucas stirred slightly as Marty called to him again. “Luke, wake up!”

Lucas took a deep breath as his senses stumbled back into wakefulness. Opening his eyes, he quickly realized they were no longer in Whittier. “Where are we?” he asked.

“I told you where we were going, right?” Marty replied. “Angeles National Forest.” Lucas opened the window and was immediately struck by a sudden blast of cold mountain air. His view was quickly pulled upstream by the towering mountain peaks that lay on each side of the reservoir, blanketed by a heavy quilt of pine. The road they traveled crisscrossed in front of them, rising steadily into the distant mountains. Some still sprinkled with patches of spring’s melting snow. “We’re staying here?” Lucas asked. “Yeah, but just for the night,” Marty answered. “Then, tomorrow, we’re going east.” It wasn’t long until they reached the dirt road, leading off Route 39 and down to a clearing next to the reservoir. They hadn’t driven much more than twenty miles into the forest with the idea that one shouldn’t venture any further than one is willing to walk, should something go wrong. The clearing quickly came into view. It was a small, grassy patch that lay below a parking lot. Nearby were several small picnic tables, complete with charcoal grills mounted into concrete-filled holes. Marty slowed the van to a crawl as they made their way to the clearing. They spent the next hour setting up their tents and preparing dinner. Marty took the opportunity to show Lucas how to use a water filter. They would use the reservoir instead of the bottled water they were carrying. It was readily available and relatively clean.

“Oh, and if you have to take a piss, go downstream about fifty feet,” Marty said.

Lucas was not a survivalist, but clearly understood the necessity of urinating as far from drinking water as possible. Later that night, they again found themselves sitting in front of a crackling fire, looking up at the night’s perpetual celestial theater. Lucas’ attention was grabbed by a cloudy band that hung suspended in the vast mountain star-scape. “Is that the Milky Way?” he asked innocently. “Yeah,” Marty answered.

Lucas looked over at him, trying not to appear too nave.

“I’ve just never seen it before,” he said. Marty shook his head with a slight grin. “You need to get out more,” he said teasingly. Lucas continued to crane his neck as he gazed up into the unobstructed view of infinity. A satellite slowly coursed its way across the sky, forcing Lucas into a moment of reflection.

“So, what do you think is going to happen?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” Marty replied. “Well,” Lucas began. “Eventually, without people to tell that satellite what to do, it’ll just fall out of the sky. Do you think that’ll happen to us?” Marty was a soldier and had never attended college, yet he understood Lucas’ metaphor very clearly. “I don’t know,” Marty answered. “I hope not.” Later, they each retreated to their tents and as the fire burned itself out, as the stars continued their heavenly course, Lucas easily drifted off to sleep. Marty, however, found himself distracted by their earlier conversation. Survival is, in a very real sense, about living in the moment. Not from a spiritual perspective, but one that dictates that every resource available must be exploited from one moment to the next, that survival itself means risking death at any given moment. In survival, the future is of little consideration, only the now. The now is the only certainty. In survival, the future is something to be feared and the question ‘what if?’ should be avoided at all times.

Morning arrived far too quickly, as the sun’s light filled the valleys of Angeles National Forest. Its warmth brought a layer of fog to the quiet, cool water of Morris Reservoir. The air was cold and still. The sky, a deep blue, still held the moon in its early morning grasp. Full in its celestial glory. Marty was awakened by the insistent chirping of the alarm on his watch. Whenever he was in the mountains, each morning was a thing of beauty, unique in its colors and textures, never to be duplicated from one heartbeat to the next. In L.A., mornings were ugly, dirty reminders of one’s trivial existence. A signal of another day one had no choice but to survive. He stood, facing east, at the edge of the reservoir. Bending down on one knee, he splashed some water on his face. Running it through his hair. As the water calmed to a glassy stillness, his reflection cast a reminder to him that he was in desperate need of a shave. Marty started a small fire and set some water on to boil. Next to that, he placed the coffee pot, filled with filtered water. Its percolator filled with coffee. He wanted to conserve the gas for their camping stoves. So, as long as there was the opportunity to start a fire with dry wood, that would be his method of choice. Survival was also about conserving resources. Marty used the side mirror on the van’s passenger door as he shaved the last few days of growth from his face. The feeling of cleanly shaven skin made him feel more human than he’d felt in several days. With thousands of stores remaining stocked with items produced by a now-defunct industrial empire, at least they wouldn’t have to live like cavemen. Anything material could be sought and procured, as long as they were within reach of what they needed. Even razors. Shortly, Lucas crawled out of his tent, having been wakened by the smell of coffee.

“Hope you like powdered milk in your coffee,” Marty said.

Lucas stood up and worked the kinks out of his back. “Yeah,” he replied. “As long as it’s coffee.” He sat down on the damp, dew-covered morning grass.

“Hey, Marty,” he began. “About yesterday, at the grocery store. I wasn’t mad at you.” Marty poured two mugs of hot coffee and carefully handed one to Lucas.

“Don’t worry about it,” he replied. “No one likes to puke.”

“You got that right,” Lucas said, as he took the mug. “And were you laughing?”

A tight-lipped grin came to Marty’s face. “You think puking is funny?” Lucas asked. “Hey, what can I say,” Marty answered. “I have a twisted sense of humor. So, yeah, I think puking is funny.”

Lucas shook his head with a slight grin. “Shit,” he began. “You’re a sick fuck.”

The brief laughter that followed eased the tension that had accumulated over the last few days, since L.A.’s sudden transformation into a ghost town. But that day seemed to be flung far into the past, as Marty and Lucas sat in front of the small fire under a cloudless blue sky. In a place nestled between two jagged ridges of the Angeles National Forest. Breakfast consisted of a can of beans, followed by a can of pears, which they split between the two of them. After the cookware had been washed and packed, they took down and folded up their tents. Marty wanted to get on the road as soon as possible. Under ordinary circumstances, driving from Los Angeles to upstate New York by the coastline would take at least two weeks, maybe longer. But these were not ordinary circumstances, and Marty knew they would run into trouble. It was an eventuality he hoped he was prepared for. Marty kicked the fire out, dousing it with water from the reservoir. With everything packed up, Marty and Lucas climbed into the van.

They followed the dirt road back up to Route 39, drove south and out of Angeles National Forest. As they entered Route 605, Marty briefly entertained the idea of staying in Whittier. It had become familiar territory but also stood in the shadow of Los Angeles. His goal was to go to the foothills of the Adirondacks, where there would be resources within easy reach as well as solitude. The foothills were also known as ‘cow country’ and having been born in that area, Marty had heard his parents, as well as his grandparents, tell of its harsh winters. With blizzards that produced winds akin to the sound of a howling animal, rattling windows and creeping through door frames. But his parents moved to L.A. when he was very young and had never seen snow. It was a sight he was looking forward to. Yet at the same time, it brought an uncertainty he was not comfortable with. However, as he adjusted, experience taught him to accept the idea of change.

One does not go headlong into the Iraq war without the idea that any situation can instantly change at any given moment. As part of a team, the response to change came from the top with orders and contingency plans. Now, Marty had only his experience and a well-tuned wit. But, he feared that this would not be enough and realized that no plan would be able to account for every deviation regarding his intentions for an uneventful journey to the Adirondacks. Marty knew that they would have to stop several times before reaching New York state. His first concern, however, was getting through the desert. Having experienced desert conditions, he knew that the days were blazing hot, while the nights were still and frigid. Anything in the desert that was not a living part of it would not soon be long-lived. So, crossing the desert just north of the Mexican border would be, Marty assumed, the most dangerous leg of their journey. Marty did consider venturing north, then east, across the continental divide. Yet a sudden crisis in the mountains would, no doubt, bring a uniquely different set of problems. They left Whittier and found their way to the Pomona Freeway. Lucas quickly learned the art of navigation, finding their way out of southern California by way of the road maps Marty had collected earlier. Before leaving, they stopped to pick up a few boxes for their supplies as well as a couple of plastic gas cans. Marty showed Lucas how to siphon gas. “Looks easy enough,” Lucas said. “Okay,” Marty replied. “Just remember, don’t swallow.”

It was another lesson for Lucas, as gasoline bubbled up from the hose and into his mouth. Spitting it out on the ground, he rinsed his mouth with some bottled water, claiming that it tasted worse than puke.

After about seventy miles, Marty turned onto the San Bernardino Freeway. They passed numerous abandoned cars. Their doors left open. Their drivers slumped over the wheel or lying face down on the sand sprinkled roadside. Other vehicles sat empty. Their drivers had likely stumbled out into the desert. Their brains cooked in their skulls by delirium and the desert sun. The vultures would have their fill, leaving the rest to rot, melting into the desert sand. Six hours into their escape, Marty decided it was time to find some place to stop for the night. Lucas, however, suggested they drive in shifts. But Marty reminded him that he didn’t know how to drive a standard shift. Lucas insisted that this was as good a time as any to learn. So, Marty pulled off to the side of the road, and they switched seats. After fifteen or twenty minutes of instruction, they were, once again, on their way. Now, there would be no need to stop. The only thing Lucas had to remember was as critical as it was simple. Push the clutch down all the way to the floor. There was no good place to burn out the clutch. To say nothing of suddenly being without a vehicle in the middle of the desert.

Driving in shifts was a great relief for Marty, who had no desire to camp in the desert where there was an overwhelming absence of firewood. Even with his training and experience. Or maybe because of it. Marty shuttered at the idea of a night in the desert. He remembered the Iraqi desert and how the moon’s light washed over the frozen waves of sand, giving the impression of stepping out onto a lonely, alien world. Lucas was a quick learner, never once grinding the gears and always fully stepping down on the clutch before changing gears. At this point, Marty’s primary concern was that with the constant driving, the van may not make it past Tucson. So, he made certain that Lucas kept an eye not only on the gas gauge but the engine temperature. Automotive engines are very complicated and many things can go wrong under normal conditions. In extreme conditions like the desert, any problem -- automotive or otherwise -- would be greatly magnified. And a walk to the nearest gas station would be out of the question. In short, if the van died in the middle of the desert, Marty and Lucas would soon follow. Throughout the day and night, they drove in six-hour shifts. Occasionally stopping to fill the tank and let the engine cool. Traveling at night was much easier without the hot sun beating down on the van’s metallic shell. After nearly sixteen hours, Marty and Lucas crossed the Texas state line, approaching the city of Juarez. Although they had been eating on the road, they were far from short on supplies. Marty glanced at his watch as they drove the highway that skirted the city. It was four o’clock in the morning. Lucas sat asleep in the passenger’s seat as Marty slowed to get a better look at the city. As more of Juarez came into view, Marty saw a place that, like Whittier and Los Angeles, gave all the appearance of having passed on. He knew there had to be, at least, a handful of people still living there. But like others who remained, they were likely too afraid to show themselves, too suspicious to trust their fellow survivors.