Crawford Kilian - Tsunami - A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller

“Okay,” Allison said. “I’ll be right back.”

When he returned from the house, he was holding a leather shoulder bag. It thumped when he put it on the trunk lid of his Nissan. Opening it, Allison began counting out Krugerrands. At a thousand dollars an ounce, half a million dollars in gold weighed just under thirty-two pounds.

“Awright” smiled the invoice man. “All present and accounted for.”

“Now,” said Allison, “I’m going to carry it to the Volvo. You two stay about fifteen feet behind me. Once I hand it over, you get in and leave at once. No funny stuff.”

“Hey, don’t you trust us?”

“I trust you a lot. I just believe in consumer protection. So a friend of mine will be watching you, and he’s very well armed.”

The two men glanced at each other. “Okay, it’s cool,” said the invoice man. “We got some backup too, you know? Nobody gets burned.”

“Great.” Allison picked up the bag. Hatless, but wearing sunglasses, he strode out into the rain, across the driveway, and into the street. Both windows on his side of the Volvo rolled down. A man in the rear seat took the bag. The driver grinned and waggled a .38 revolver in his lap, where Allison could see it.

“A pleasure doing business with you,” Allison said to the man in back.

“Likewise,” said the man. “Nowadays you can’t be too careful.”

The invoice man and his companion got into the Volvo; the driver backed downhill into the next driveway, then accelerated towards Sunset Boulevard.

Bert, holding a revolver, stood up behind a laurel hedge.

“Nicely done,” he said. “That took balls. Everything okay?”

“Sure. A little tense there for a minute, but I knew you were watching. Thanks.”

Bert cleared his throat. “Uh, Bob — did you really pay those suckers half a million in gold?”

“That’s right. And if they can figure out a way to eat it, or shoot it, or live in it, they’re smarter than I am.”

“Jeepers. Seems awful steep to me.”

“Listen,” said Allison. “From now on, wealth is goods only. No abstractions, no gold, no paper, no jewels — just food and fuel and shelter and weapons. I just ripped those guys off something cruel.”

Late in the afternoon, Ted Loeffler drove the Nissan to Santa Monica, with Allison following in the new Range Rover. Ted had phoned Astrid to say he’d leave the Nissan outside her building, with the keys and a thousand dollars under the driver’s seat. He couldn’t stay to visit; the neighbour who was following to pick him up was in a hurry. She’d understood and thanked him.

It was almost dusk when they turned off Santa Monica Boulevard onto Yale Street. Astrid’s was a fairly new five-story building; her apartment was on the second floor. Lights burned in the windows, but they had an almost orange glow: voltage had just been stepped down into a brownout.

Ted parked across from the building, and honked twice. Getting out, he waved to Astrid, a dark outline, and climbed into the waiting Range Rover.

“I sure hope this is the right thing, Bob Tony.”

Allison drove down to the corner, turned left, and left again into an alley. “I know it looks shitty, but the kid’s safety comes first.”

“Sure.”

“Ted, after this I owe you a big one.”

Ted didn’t answer. Allison parked at the rear of the building, got out, and went through the rear entrance into the recreation room.

A door led to the lobby. Allison peeped through, heard footsteps on the stairs, and then saw Astrid hurry across the lobby in a glossy yellow raincoat. The coat made it easy to see her cross the street and slip into the Nissan.

Allison walked casually into the lobby. Once out of sight of the street, he raced up to the second floor and rapped on Astrid’s door.

“Mommy?”

“No, Sarah, it’s Dad. Open up, I’ve got a surprise for you.” Astrid would be searching in vain for the keys to the Nissan; he would not have much time before she gave up and returned.

The door opened. God, Sarah was beautiful. “Daddy!”

He picked her up, dizzy with the joy of holding her, smelling her, feeling her wiry little arms around his neck.

“Where’s my surprise?”

“Downstairs. Come on, we have to hurry.” He held her on his hip, just like the old days, as he took the stairs two at a time. She giggled excitedly at the jouncing until he shushed her. A quick turn from the lobby into the rec room, not even a glance from under his wide-brimmed Stetson to see if Astrid was still across the street. Christ, what an adrenalin rush. Fun.

Then they were in the alley, in the truck. Ted was behind the wheel; the Range Rover lurched forward.

“Where we going?” Sarah asked.

“On a surprise trip up to the ranch. We’re going right away, and we’ll be there in the morning when you wake up.”

“What about Mommy?”

“You know she doesn’t come to the ranch, silly.”

In the dashboard lights, Ted’s face looked taut and grim. “Bob Tony, you really do owe me a big one.”

Allison reached over and patted Ted’s arm. For an instant, as he chattered with Sarah, he imagined what Astrid must be going through: coming back to find the door open, the apartment empty; asking neighbours if Sarah was with them, calling police who wouldn’t come, calling anyone she could think of and getting no useful answer.

Well, very heavy, sure, but so what? Astrid was part of the past, the dead past. They were driving through the rainy night into a strange and terrible future where private sorrows dwindled into less than the chirping of crickets. He cuddled his daughter. He would get her through that future at any cost, protect her from any danger.

The convoy was moving north on the San Diego Freeway by a little after seven: Allison in the Range Rover, with Sarah asleep on the back seat; the Dodge van with the Loefflers; the D’Annunzios in their Vanagon; Dave and Diana Marston in their GMC Jemmy. All had CB radios, which were almost useless: endless jabber filled every channel, barely audible under waves of static.

It was still raining when they crossed the Santa Monica Mountains into the San Fernando Valley; the northbound lanes were crowded, and traffic was slow. The Valley looked utterly ordinary, except for the orangey dimness of the street lights. Traffic rumbled along, stores were open, police cars cruised silently. Allison looked out at the countless bungalows and garden apartments, the taco stands and Polynesian restaurants and shopping centres, and said good-byee to it all. For a few more days or weeks, places like this would sustain the pattern of normality. Then they would go under. Towns and cities to the east would fail soon as well, overwhelmed by refugees and the collapsing economy. Food would be scarce in a month, maybe less; he’d read not long ago that the UV damage to crops had left North America with only a twenty-six-day supply of grain.

Allison felt the drag of the .45 automatic holstered at his waist. It was one of Bert’s; Allison had accepted it more out of the logic of their circumstances than out of felt need. It was somehow comforting to be armed, even if he hadn’t yet fired his gun even in practice.

The convoy turned west onto the Ventura Freeway; driving was suddenly easier, with almost no other traffic to contend with. Wondering whether the road might even have been blockaded, Allison turned on the CB. Static and fragments of chatter crackled from the loud-speaker: then an urgent command.

“— get everybody right outa there , right now . The police are up there now , tryna get ‘ em moving . They figure it’ll go right across Ventura and up Balboa Boulevard . You know how many houses there are in that area ? You know how many people ? You get your people out … Any minute , any minute . It’s comm’ over the top of the dam already .”