Avalon: The Retreat Read online

  Avalon: The Retreat

  by

  L. Michael Rusin

  Kamel Press, LLC

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  www.AvalonTheRetreat.com

  for upcoming books in the series.

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  www.KamelPress.com

  Copyright 2012 by L. Michael Rusin. All rights reserved.

  The Avalon “A” logo designed by Kermit Jones, Jr., created by Meredith Sump, and is a trademark of Kamel Press, LLC.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without permission from the author.

  ISBN-13:

  978-1-62487-001-9 - Paperback

  978-1-62487-011-8 - Hardcover

  978-1-62487-021-7 - eBook (Kindle)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 201295008

  Published in the USA.

  Chapter 1 The Balloon Pops

  The sirens wailed in the distance, making a mournful sound that pierced the air. It was a sound that was impossible for anyone to ignore, a sound that resonated through the house, reminiscent of a fifties low grade, end-of-the-world movie.

  Except this was real.

  Dogs yelped in mournful synchronization. Birds in large flocks took flight and were gone. The local news station said there was a terrorist attack on the East Coast of the United States. Most of the stations gave the same message and implored everyone to remain calm and stay at home.

  The radio on the kitchen counter was tuned to a soft rock station when the emergency broadcast signal started to blare. It was a man’s voice.

  A message has been handed to me by the station director. It’s my sad duty to inform you that a nuclear device was detonated in Atlanta, Georgia a few moments ago. Casualties are running high, but details are sketchy. Stay tuned for further developments.

  Mike knew exactly what he was going to do. It was the same thing the rest of the members of his retreat were probably doing right now. He prepared to leave, packing up his “bug out” essentials so that he could head for the retreat. He and members of his group kept several crucial items handy in backpacks and a few nylon bags that they would take with them if anything like this ever happened.

  It was happening now!

  Mike and the members of his group had planned for a contingency such as this one years ago, but none of them believed it would actually happen in their lifetime. Those sirens were telling him a different story, and he had to get going as soon as possible. The radio came to life again.

  Fellow Americans, we are being asked to please stay home and off the streets in order to allow emergency personnel and officials to get to the areas where they are needed. We will inform you of any current and updated information as it comes into the studio. Please remain calm and, again, please stay at home.

  “Stay home? No way; I’m outta here!”

  He said it aloud as he switched off the radio, his voice momentarily echoing off the walls.

  Mike turned on his hand-held-radio, recognizing the familiar sound of a message being sent. The key word “Firestorm” was said five times audibly, and then there was a slow but precise rhythm in standard Morse code of a coded message being transmitted. He and members of his group used The DaVinci Code by Dan Brown, paperback version, as a code reference. Mike made his way over to the writing table, opened his copy of the book, and began writing.

  Chapter six, page thirty-five, third paragraph, twenty-third word, third letter (w).

  Chapter six, page thirty-five, second word, fourth letter (e).

  Break.

  Chapter six, page thirty six, fourth word, second letter (a).

  Chapter six, page thirty-six, seventh word, third letter (r).

  Chapter six, page thirty-six, first word, fifth letter (e).

  Break.

  Chapter six, page thirty nine, first paragraph, second word, fifth letter (a).

  Chapter six, page thirty-nine, second paragraph, second word, second letter (l).

  Chapter six, page thirty-nine, second paragraph, seventh word, fifth letter (l).

  Break…

  When he had copied all the letters it read,

  We are all leaving now. Cache first. See you there. Luck.

  The code continued repeating itself, but he knew why; since it was still early, others in the group might not have gotten the message. It would transmit this way for the next twenty-four hours so everyone could receive it.

  So it finally happened?

  His thoughts were automatic as he reflected on what the blaring sirens were telling him. Installed decades ago, they hadn’t seen actual use aside from infrequent testing since their installation in most American cities in the early 1950’s when the Civil Defense ran occasional drills. All members of his survival group, however, had completed numerous practice drills using this same system.

  Security was paramount in any group, and they knew that secrecy in this matter was no different. When transmitted over the airwaves, or even by phone, anyone could intercept a message, and they desperately needed a balance between security and usability. A group as small as theirs couldn’t afford large losses of life or casualties. They attempted to mitigate the danger with proper planning, execution, and clear communication that could only be understood by their own people.

  Mike knew that history held many lessons. One example came from World War II, during which only two types of code were never successfully broken. The first was centered on languages spoken by Native American code talkers; the second, however, didn’t require learning a new language.

  It entailed all members of a group having the same edition of a book that they could all refer to as a key to both encode and decode a message, much like a Rosetta Stone. The information was then sent out in standard Morse code. This was the system he and his group had decided on and though it was somewhat tedious, it was also absolutely foolproof and unbreakable. In place of a sophisticated coding machine or mechanism, it always worked.

  The message usually started with a classifying signal word or phrase that was repeated several times and at a predetermined time. Examples were Forest Fire, Yellow, Red, Green, or the phrase “The River Meanders.” Those signals told the receiver of the message both its level of urgency and whether it was a drill or an actual emergency. The signal words and phrases were short and memorized by all members of the group.

  The word “Firestorm” Mike had recorded marked this message as extremely urgent and not a drill; copy the coded message and comply. It was the message all of them hoped to never receive, but here it was. It was real and the truth was simple, life for all of them would likely forever change from this day forward.

  He was in a hurry, but not overly so. Out of necessity, he was careful and methodical about what he gathered, knowing deep down that he probably wasn’t coming back. Mike picked up the military issued aluminum-framed Alice Pack backpack that sat in the corner, tossed it on the bed, and began to execute a carefully scripted and practiced checklist. He walked over to the closet, opened the door, and grabbed his web belt, setting it aside momentarily while he laced up his boots.

  Without giving it much thought, his shirt came off, leaving him with only a T-shirt on his torso. Stepping into the closet, he removed the loose panel in the back and took hold of the secret lockbox that had carefully been placed there. Entering the combination, he removed the custom shoulder holster rig. It was fitted with two holsters… one for his .44 Magnum Smith and Wesson six inch barrel and the other for a Colt .45 1911 A1. Both were in the
lockbox, hidden away safely from any thieves that might have broken in during his absence.

  The holster rig was specially made for him by a friend who had been a Parachute Rigger in the Navy. He specialized in custom modifications, and Mike’s setup was tailor made. It fit like a glove under the loose, dark denim, button-up shirt he selected earlier.

  It was a balancing act of risk versus practicality. Mike didn’t want anyone to notice he was armed as he headed for the retreat, but it would be foolish to ignore the fact that with law enforcement overwhelmed, the time was likely coming when “might would make right.” He wasn’t going to take the chance of being on the wrong side of that logic because he knew that being a good guy was no defense against an armed bad guy with something to prove. Preparedness was a nebulous affair, at best, and full of uncertainties.

  He reached out and grabbed the U.S. Marine Corps KA-BAR knife and duct-taped it to his calf. It had an eight-inch blade, and this particular one was Vietnam issue. The muscles in his forearms rippled as he twisted his wrist and rolled his pants leg back down to hide it. He made a quick check out the window with a scan from left to right and then right to left. It was just about that time; he was almost ready to leave.

  The Smith and Wesson .44 came out with a rehearsed move. He pushed on the release, flipped his wrist so the cylinder opened, and looked at the loads. They were all hollow point. Satisfied that it was loaded and ready, he settled it back in the holster and pulled out the .45.

  Again rehearsed, he ejected the magazine, catching it with his other hand and took a quick glance at it. Having verified it was full, as well, Mike slipped the 1911 back in place in the holster. He’d done this a hundred times and, at this point, it was automatic. The Alice Pack went on a few minutes later, just before he headed out.

  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 f
ell 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.