Homefront: The Voice of Freedom (13 page)

There were fewer cars stuck on Route 62. Walker increased his speed to fifty miles per hour as he rode past the Little San Bernardino Mountains on his right. Whatever had happened to the nation in the last twenty years, the land itself hadn’t changed. The vista was gorgeous. Walker had always found beauty in the deserts and mountain ranges of California. He wasn’t far from the awe-inspiring Joshua Tree National Park, where he had once attempted a bit of rock-climbing as a teenager. Walker ended up breaking his arm. He never was the outdoor rugged type—until now.

Walker stopped at the small town of Joshua Tree around noon. It, too, was deserted, which didn’t bode well for Twentynine Palms. In fact, he hadn’t seen any human beings since he left Palm Springs. He was beginning to wonder if this was all just a huge mistake.

He emptied Franklin’s gas can into the Spitfire’s fuel tank, which brought the level up to near where it had been when he’d started out that morning. After a bit of lunch—cereal again—and a few swigs of water, he continued the journey. The water supply concerned him. His body required much more hydration than he’d originally calculated. The sun was quite hot for January, but then he
was
in the desert. It would be very cold at night, but the days could be just as brutal as they were in the summer.

In an hour he finally reached Twentynine Palms, and Walker’s spirits sank. There wasn’t a soul in sight. The town was desolate and empty; it had most likely been that way for years prior to the blast. He drove the Spitfire up and down the streets looking for any signs of life, but he found nothing. There was,
however, an Indian reservation east of town. The Twenty-nine Palms Band of Mission Indians of Coachella Valley, California, were Chemehuevi that had prospered in the 1990s by opening a casino in Cabezon, which stood at the southern end of the reservation, southeast of Palm Springs. The Twentynine Palms entrance was technically the “back door,” and it was well-guarded. The Native Americans had constructed a fence and gate to keep the outside world away. Walker wondered how life had been on reservations around the country since the economic crises of the past decade. It can’t have been good. No wonder there was a barrier.

Walker stopped and turned off the bike. He walked toward the solid steel gate and knocked.

“Anyone home?” he called.

No answer. Nothing but the wind.

He banged on the gate again. There was no intercom or mail slot or window. It may as well have been a fortress. Maybe that’s what it was meant to be.

Walker turned back to his bike. Just as he was about to mount, a gun discharged behind him. The cartridge kicked the dirt on the left side of the Spitfire, scaring the hell out of him. He jumped behind the bike and saw a Native American standing on a platform at the top of the fence, rifle in hand. It was pointing straight at Walker.

“Go!” the man shouted.

Walker raised his hands. “Wait! I’m a friend. I just—”

The gun recoiled again. The round hit the ground even closer.

“Fine, fine,” Walker said. He got on the bike and kick-started it. As he rode away, he looked back to see the Native American had been joined by two others. They must have had their fair share of trouble
with motorcycle gangs and weren’t taking any chances with white men like him.

Walker supposed he couldn’t blame them.

Disheartened, Walker drove to the north end of town toward the old Marine base. If that turned out to be a dead end, he didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t have enough gas to get back to Palm Springs.

“You fucked up, Walker,” he said aloud.

He reached the turnoff for Route 62 and a road heading north. An old graffiti-smeared sign indicated it was the way to the Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center Twentynine Palms. Three miles ahead. He physically crossed his fingers and said, “Please,” and revved the bike. But before Walker could cross 62, he noticed dark specks on the road to the west, distorted by the heat waves wafting off the hot asphalt.

Vehicles—headed his way.

Walker didn’t know whether to greet them with joy or run and hide. He pulled out the binoculars and took a look.

Motorcycles. Another gang of outlaws.

One of the men pointed at him. They increased their speed.

Walker cursed, turned the bike around, and sped back into town. He pulled into a residential street and scanned the houses as he drove past, looking for one without a fenced backyard. He located a candidate at the end of the block, swerved in between the houses, and rode around behind the structure. Walker shut off the bike and waited.

The engine noise grew closer. They must have seen him turn into the neighborhood. Walker clenched his teeth as his heart pounded in his chest. He heard the gang ride past the house in front. Someone whooped and hollered, though he could barely hear it over the
deafening din of the bikes. He couldn’t tell if they were staying in the same spot or not.

What were they doing?
Go away
!

Then the noise diminished as they moved on, and Walker breathed a sigh of relief. The bikers must have gone on to the next block or turned the corner or something.

Now to get out of there and back to the Marine base.

But just when he thought it might be safe to leave, he heard the revving of their engines
increase
in volume. They were returning. Once again, there was shouting and motor racket in front of the house. Walker got off the Spitfire, not sure if he should try to hide—there wasn’t any place where he could—or run. He drew the kitchen knife from the jury-rigged sheath on his calf.

So this is what sheer terror felt like …

The bikes were at the side of the house, coming closer. They’d found him.

Four serious motorcycles roared into the backyard—a couple of Harleys, a Kawasaki, and a Triumph, all heavy touring models. They carried seven men—two rode double on three of the bikes—all whooping like American Indians circling the covered wagons.

This is it. They’re going to kill me
.

The bikers shut off their rides and got off. The one man who was riding alone was bald, had the build of a professional wrestler, and had tattoos up and down his bare arms. All of them wore black leather jackets with the sleeves cut off.

“What a shitty ride you got, mister,” he said, walking around the Spitfire. “How old is that thing?”

Walker swallowed and tried hard to keep the nervousness out of his voice. “It’s a nineteen-sixty-seven model.”

The biker pointed to Franklin’s empty gas can. “Any gas in there?”

“No. What I’ve got is in the fuel tank.”

“Got any money?”

“Not much.”

“Food? Water?”

Walker removed his backpack and threw it on the ground in front of the man. “There. Take a look. What you see is what you get.”

The bald leader turned to his men and said, “I think we got ourselves a smart-ass.” He looked at Walker. “Are you a smart-ass?”

Walker was scared to death, but at this point it didn’t matter what he said. “I try not to be, but sometimes my true nature comes out.”

The bald biker snorted. “He’s a comedian, too!” He picked up the backpack and threw it to one of his pals. Two of them started going through it, removing the water bottles, the rest of the cereal, and the other items. The leader unstrapped the tool box on the back of the Spitfire and opened it. He nodded, pleased with the contents, and strapped it back on. He didn’t touch the sleeping bag.

“Where’s the key?”

Walker’s stomach lurched. “In my pocket.”

“I’d like you to hand it over to my friend Rascal here.” He gestured to one of the other men who’d been riding double. Rascal, a bearded ugly son of a bitch, grinned broadly, revealing a set of yellow teeth with three missing.

Walker dug in his pocket and tossed the man his beloved key.

“Better empty all your pockets.”

They ended up taking everything. His wallet, motorcycle, backpack, tool kit, and even the kitchen knife, which they found amusing.

“He’s a tough guy! Carries a big knife!”

One man grabbed the Dodgers baseball cap off his head and put it on. Another man claimed the sunglasses.

Walker prayed they wouldn’t take his clothes.

Instead, the seven men decided to have a little fun and beat the tar out of him. The bald leader delivered the first punch directly into Walker’s stomach, doubling him over, winded and in agony. Rascal then kicked him in the face, knocking him to the ground. Another man grabbed hold of Walker’s shirt to raise him just high enough to punch him in the nose, breaking it.

A fourth man kicked him in the ribs.

A fifth kicked him in the kidneys.

They each had a turn and then started all over again.

   He didn’t know how long he was unconscious. The sun had dropped considerably but it was still daylight. He lay on the dirt and rocks of the backyard where the bandits had beaten him senseless. Bolts of pain assaulted his entire body. His face and torso felt as if they’d been crushed in a vise.

Slowly, excruciatingly, he got to his hands and knees and spit blood. His left side was in agony. Walker suspected he had one or two broken ribs. He didn’t want to see his face. His nose, he knew, was busted. It was clogged with dried blood and mucus. But he still had his teeth. And his clothes.

And he was alive.

Walker got to his feet and supported himself against the house. After a pause, he stumbled to the back door and tried the knob. It was locked, of course. He didn’t have the strength to kick it in. He went to a back window and looked inside. All he
could determine was that it was once someone’s home.

Dazed, Walker went around to the front and started walking back toward the highway. He remembered it wasn’t far. Looking up, he saw what appeared to be a buzzard circling over his head.

One of us thinks dinner is on the horizon …

It took an hour, but eventually he made it to the crossroad of Route 62 and the road to the Marine base. He continued north, forcing himself to keep going. Pretty soon it would be dark.

Another hour later, Walker passed a closed gas station. The door and windows were boarded up, vandalized by graffiti, but there was a hole in the garage door. He didn’t think much of it, just continued on. He could see the Marine base up ahead, surrounded by a high chain-link fence with barbed wire along the top. The gate was chained and padlocked. A large metal sign on the gate displayed the legend:
CLOSED—NO TRESPASSING—U.S. MARINE CORPS PROPERTY—DANGER—VIOLATORS SUBJECT TO ARREST
.

Through the fence, Walker saw many neglected buildings—barracks, a mess hall, and who knew what else.

How could he get in?

He studied the fence and barbed wire. There was no way he could climb over it. The chain and padlock were impenetrable.

Walker wanted to cry. He banged on the fence with a fist and cursed. He kicked and shouted, picked up a rock, and threw it at the metal sign.

He turned and walked back toward town. But when he passed the closed gas station, he stopped.

That
hole
in the garage door …

He crossed the street and looked inside. Dark. But
there was
stuff
in there. And the hole was big enough for him to crawl through. So he did.

Walker took a minute to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. It was a typical service bay garage, littered with tires, machine parts, and garbage. But there were also plenty of tools on the benches. Walker found a tool box and went through its contents.

Wire cutters. Strong ones, too.

He left them in the box and looked for other items he could use. Found a flashlight, but the batteries were dead. Dropped it in the box anyway. Satisfied, he carried the tool box out and headed back for the base camp.

Rather than cutting a hole in the fence right by the gate—where passersby might see it—he moved farther along the fence, into the brush, where it would be hidden. He snipped the steel mesh, a piece at a time, until he could bend a section back to allow egress.

He was inside.

The sun was nearly gone.

   In its heyday, the base was a small city with nearly nine thousand inhabitants. Because of its desert location, the Marines built training facilities to prepare soldiers for warfare in Iraq, Afghanistan, and other rough terrains. The vast expansion of land contained obstacle courses, “practice towns” for assault instruction, schools, family and bachelor barracks, entertainment facilities, equipment storage buildings, and administrative offices.

Walker moved through the village-like community, found an old
YOU ARE HERE
map on a wooden post, and navigated his way straight to the Mess Hall, which was still indicated as such. The door was locked, so he opened the trusty tool box, grabbed a
hammer, and smashed the jam. Once inside, he explored. It was a large space with long tables and benches, meant to feed a couple hundred men or more at a time. There was a full professional kitchen with all of the equipment intact. Just for kicks, Walker tried the tap water in the sink. Nothing. He turned on the gas stove. Nothing. He shrugged. It was worth the attempt.

One wall was lined with several pantries, the doors of which were fastened with small padlocks. Kid stuff. Using the hammer again, he broke one off and opened the pantry.

Walker about shit in his pants.

The shelves were completely stocked with packaged and canned food and bottled water.

Unbelievable.

No, a fucking
miracle
!

He grabbed a large can of pork ’n’ beans, looked around the kitchen, spotted an opener, and almost tripped trying to get to it. He placed the can under the opener, spun it around, and threw the lid across the room.

Sure enough, the can was full of pork ’n’ beans.

After shoving three handfuls into his mouth, Walker went back to the pantries and opened them all. There was enough food to last months.
Months
. And it was all his! He took one of the prepackaged dried beef and noted the expiration date. Okay, so what if it was four years old? It couldn’t be
that
bad.