Homefront: The Voice of Freedom (10 page)

Walker rushed to the foyer and started to leave—but then he remembered the cereal box he’d dropped. Normally he might have run out of the house screaming, or perhaps dialed 911
first
and then fled in terror. But the cereal was too precious a commodity to leave behind. He steeled himself to return to the sepulchre that was once a family living room and retrieve the box. He didn’t dare glance at Rudy Gomez a second time.

Only after he got back to his house did Walker realize that a more valuable commodity would have been the shotgun, but he wasn’t about to return to the scene of the crime and retrieve it. It was covered with Gomez’s dried blood and who knew what else. Dismissing the thought, Walker dropped on his sofa and stared at the blank television. He knew he was in shock. Nothing he’d seen during the past week had prepared him for
that
. The hellishness of what he’d seen in the streets was
nothing
compared to what he’d uncovered next door.

And what was he going to do about it?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

What could he do? The Gomezes were dead. There was no ambulance to call, no police to phone. He supposed he could dig graves in their backyard and bury them, but he didn’t want to go near the bodies. They were bloated and putrefied. Probably been dead two or three days. It was Bacteria Heaven over there.

No, he wasn’t going to do anything at all.

And that thought struck him profoundly.

He had left a revolting scene of carnage, simply returned to his home, and plopped down on the sofa. If he’d had a cold beer, he would have popped it open and turned on the television.

How could his soul have degenerated to such uncaring nonchalance?

Walker stood, opened the glass door to the deck, and stepped outside.

It would be dark soon. The only lights in the city below him were fires. The silence in the air was the sound of death.

It was time for a change.

Walker would risk it; he would take his motorcycle and head east.

JANUARY 23? 24?, 2025

Okay, I’m ready to go
.

Not sure what time it is, my watch doesn’t work anymore either. It’s either just before midnight on the 23rd or it’s already the 24th. All I know is it’s dark outside. Even though there’s a curfew, I’m going to take the chance
.

Where am I going? Hell, I don’t know. I’m just heading east. I want to leave this godforsaken place
.

I stuffed what I could take in a backpack—my remaining bottles of water, some baggies filled with cereal, a box of matches, a tiny first-aid kit with band-aids and ibuprofen, binoculars, some extra clothing, what toiletries I felt were necessary, sunscreen, some kitchen stuff—eating utensils, a few plastic plates, and a cup
.

I strapped a metal toolbox, a sleeping bag, and two 5-gallon cans of gas on the back of my bike. It was all I could fit. I’m also taking a Swiss Army knife and the only other “weapon” I could find—a big blade meant for carving turkeys. I cut some pieces of canvas and stapled them together to form a sheath. This I tied around my right calf. If I have to, I can draw the knife fairly easily. I hope to God it never comes to that
.

I have an LA Dodgers baseball cap, so I put that
on. It’s not going to provide much protection from the sun, but it’s better than nothing. Maybe along the way I can find a cowboy hat or something
.

Luckily I never threw out my paper folding maps of the LA area. They’re out of date, but the main roads will still be there. I’m going to avoid the Interstates. That’s where the worst trouble will be. I figure I’ll go up to 134 and head toward Pasadena and then on to San Bernardino. Maybe conditions are better out that way. I have no idea what I’ll find. There’s an old Marine base out in the desert, north of Palm Springs and a town called Twentynine Palms. I know it’s been closed for a few years, but maybe I can find some refuge there. Maybe there’s still a military contingent there. It’s a plan, at any rate
.

So it’s goodbye to Los Angeles, for now anyway. Hopefully someday I can return. Something tells me, though, that this is it. It’s weird saying “so long” to all my
stuff
and the house my mom owned. I never thought this would happen, but I have to face facts. I’m out of here. Even though there are still millions of people alive in LA, I know I’m leaving a ghost town
.

There’s nothing here for me anymore
.

JANUARY 24, 2025

Walker set out taking side roads up to Glendale. With a motorcycle, it was easy to navigate around the maze of abandoned cars in the streets, but it was slow going. He was forced to keep his speed under thirty miles an hour. It would have been impossible to escape the urban sprawl in a full-sized automobile.

He prayed he wouldn’t run into policemen who might shoot him for being out past curfew. Worse than that would be to run into any of the roving gangs of “outlaws” he’d heard about. As it was the middle of the night, the odds were in his favor.

It was deathly quiet and very, very dark. Only the rumble of the Spitfire’s engine broke the silence. The bike’s headlight was the only illumination aside from the moon and stars.

The night air was chilly. Walker wore a brown leather bomber jacket, gloves, a scarf around his neck and lower face, and sunglasses. Goggles would have been better than the sunglasses, which made driving at night more difficult. He’d left a pair in his garage without thinking.

When he got to Glendale, he turned east on Highway 134. Up ahead a bonfire raged on the side of the road. People huddled around it. Walker debated whether he should find an alternate route or take
his chances and go on. He paused and idled for a moment as he dug into the backpack for his binoculars. Raising them to his eyes, he determined the folks around the fire appeared harmless. They were all middle-aged men, probably homeless, simply trying to keep warm. Walker put the binoculars away and rode forward. There was a clear path in the highway, allowing him to increase his speed. As he drove past the bonfire, the men shouted at him, pointing, amazed to see a vehicle that worked. They wanted him to stop but Walker kept going. No time to chitchat. Besides, they might not be as friendly as they looked.

As he reached Pasadena, the highway became Interstate-210. Many more deserted cars and trucks scattered the road, creating obstacles that slowed him down. It took nearly three hours to get to Arcadia, and by that time the sun was rising.

Nature called, so Walker risked stopping to take a leak. It didn’t really matter where he halted; the web of cars on the highway provided plenty of privacy. He parked beside a van, stood in between it and another car, and did his business.

But just as he was zipping up, a gunshot cracked nearby. Walker flinched as he felt the heat of the round hit the side of the van near his head.

The road wasn’t so private after all.

Walker ducked and rushed to his bike. Another shot shattered a window on the van. He jumped on, turned the key, and slammed his boot on the kick-start.

The cycle didn’t start. The engine coughed as if it had emphysema.

Walker cursed and looked behind him. He made out three figures running toward him. One of them whooped and hollered, as if they’d caught themselves breakfast.

He kicked the start again. This time the engine revved—but died again.

What the hell was wrong?

Another gunshot punctured one of the extra gas cans on the back of the bike. Precious fuel poured out as if a spigot was turned on.

Walker stomped the kick-start again, and it caught on the third try. He gunned it, and the Spitfire shot forward between the obstacles in his way. The pursuers shouted in anger. More gunfire. It was the first time in his life Walker had to run from men shooting at him.

He didn’t slow down until his hunters were mere specks in the distance. Steering more cautiously now, he was back to the excruciating thirty-mile-per-hour speed.

It was around Azusa that he stopped again to check out the damage to the gas can. He removed and shook it. It was empty so he tossed the can on the road and climbed back on the bike.

He figured he had less than a half tank. The other five-gallon can would help, but he doubted he could make it to the following day without filling up somewhere. The Spitfire got good gas mileage at higher speeds; the snail’s pace was killing him.

Walker studied his map for an alternate route. It wasn’t a detailed street map—it only displayed the major roads and highways. In the end he decided it was too risky to venture off the Interstate. There was no telling what the side streets were like and he wasn’t familiar with the territory.

He took a moment’s pause to eat a little breakfast. Walker had made a vow to exercise discipline and conserve his food and water. He took only a couple of handfuls of cereal, which left him hungrier than before he stopped. After one swig of water, he was ready to move on.

By mid-morning, Walker noticed more people walking along the highway, all headed east. There were groups of varying sizes consisting of men, women, and children. Some of the men carried rifles. Walker figured they were regular folks, just trying to get away from the horrors of the city. Many of them waved as he rode past. Walker waved back.

By noon Walker was in San Bernardino. The plan was to take I-210 as it curved to the south and merge onto I-10 toward Palm Springs. Once there, he’d take Route 62 up to Twentynine Palms and look for the Marine Corps training grounds at Camp Wilson. Walker was aware it was probably a desolate, empty hellhole in the desert, but there was a chance some military personnel might be present along with a little more law and order.

As Walker rode past Redlands, the labyrinth of abandoned cars on the highway diminished. There were still enough to keep him from increasing to a speed over forty, but the road wasn’t nearly as dense with derelicts. To his surprise, he encountered a group of three men and two women with a working Toyota, likely a model from the early 1990s. They had stopped to push a BMW out of the way so they could drive past it. Walker was amazed they’d managed to navigate through the network of dead automobiles this far.

He stopped to help them.

Together, the six of them tipped the BMW on its side and rolled it over. This provided enough space for the Toyota to get through.

“Much obliged,” one of the men said.

“You have any food?” a woman asked.

“I’m sorry,” Walker answered. He knew if he started sharing what little cereal he had with anyone on the road, it wouldn’t last through the next meal.

At Moreno Valley, Walker passed a makeshift roadside eatery run by Mexicans. They had erected a picnic umbrella and had a portable tamale cart. A big sign read: T
AMALES—$10 EACH
. A few walk-up customers sat at two picnic tables by the stand. Apparently the Mexicans were doing fair business.

The price was outrageous, but the thought of tamales made Walker’s mouth water. He hadn’t had hot food in a week. It was too tempting to pass up.

Rather than taking the chance of losing the motorcycle, Walker got off at the next exit, turned into a closed gas station, and rode around to the back. There was nothing there but a couple of junker cars without wheels and a lot of garbage. He stopped, cut the ignition, and chained the bike to the axle of one of the cars. He then walked to the feeder road and headed back the mile-and-a-half to the tamale stand.

There was a family of three at one of the picnic tables—a man, woman, and a boy who appeared to be around six. Two older Hispanic men sat at the other table. They were all chowing down on the food, which smelled delicious.

A Mexican couple manned the stand. The man greeted Walker in Spanish and seemed friendly enough. Walker ordered one tamale. It was small, but he was hungry; a hot tamale was manna from heaven. The couple also sold warm soda cans for five dollars each. Walker decided to splurge.

He approached the family of three and asked, “Mind if I join you?”

The patriarch replied, “Be our guest.”

Walker sat across from them, opened the soda can, and took a sip. Even warm, the cola was like nectar from the gods. The tamale was hot, fresh, and perfect. He took his time, savoring small bites so it would last as long as possible.

“Where you headed?” the man asked.

“I don’t really know,” Walker answered truthfully.

“I noticed you came from the east. Where’d you come
from
?”

“Oh, I—” He started to tell them he was traveling away from LA, but he didn’t want to reveal ownership of a motorcycle. “Uhm, I live right here in Moreno Valley. I was holding out spending any money all week, but finally the thought of a hot tamale got the best of me. So here I am.”

“Is it true about the gangs in this area?”

Walker wasn’t sure what to say. “Gangs?”

The man looked at his wife and nodded. “We’ve heard there are motorcycle gangs between here and Palm Springs. Outlaws. They stop people and rob them. If you put up a fight, they kill you.”

“Or worse,” the wife added.

Walker understood what she meant. “I haven’t seen any. They have motorcycles that run?”

The man took a sip of his own soda and answered, “More and more people are repairing their cars and trucks. It’s not that hard, especially on older models. It’s the newer computerized ones that are the problem.”

“I wonder how long it’s going to take to get the country back in order.”

The man shot Walker a look. “Are you crazy? The country will
never
be back in order. It won’t ever be the way it
was
, that’s for sure. The Norks really did a number on us.”

“We’re certain it was the Koreans?”

“Yeah. I have a buddy in Burbank—that’s where we’re from—who has a ham radio in his basement. The EMP didn’t affect it. He told me he heard a broadcast every now and then by someone with the Emergency Broadcast System. I don’t know how
they’re able to transmit any messages because the entire radio network across the country is wiped out. But there must be transmitters here and there that somehow happened to be protected. They were in a shelter or something. Anyway, he said it was confirmed by Washington that the Koreans were responsible.”