Crawford Kilian - Tsunami - A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller

Naiad sailed through the San Juan and Gulf islands, and crossed the Strait of Georgia to the mouth of the Fraser River. After days of silence or static, Naiad’s radio came alive: three Vancouver stations were broadcasting news, weather and music, and there was a lively chatter among the fishing fleet.

“It all seems so damn normal,” Bill Murphy commented.

“Not really,” said Don. “The only fishing boats we can see from here are all sailboats. They’ve got a fuel shortage too.” He looked worriedly at the skyline of Vancouver, rising to the north. “I just hope my grandfather managed to put away a little diesel fuel.”

They cautiously entered the Fraser River’s North Arm, a narrow waterway lined with docks, shipyards, warehouses and sawmills. Apart from docks where fishermen were unloading their catches, the waterfront was quiet and deserted. In many areas the rising sea had flooded far inshore, leaving buildings intact but isolated from the nearest dry land.

A green-and-white sign over a sawmill had been blistered by UV but was still legible: KENFOR. The mill stood on the north bank of the river, a sprawl of buildings and yards above a string of docks and boat sheds. As Don brought Naiad alongside the nearest empty dock, he pointed to the tug moored next to it:

“There’s Rachel .”

It was a big seagoing tug, forty metres long and ten wide, painted white with green trim. No one was aboard, or anywhere on the docks.

They left Naiad and walked through the mill to the front gate, seeing no one. A young bearded Sikh, wearing a turban, came out of the administration building beside the gate. He was carrying a shotgun under one arm.

“This is private property,” he said. “I must ask you to leave.”

“I’m Geordie Kennard’s grandson. We’ve just arrived from California. I need to get a message to him. Would it be possible to send a courier?”

“I don’t really think so,” the Sikh said, shaking his head. “But you could use the phone if you know his number.”

“You mean the phones work?” Bill Murphy laughed. “Wow! We’ve hit the big time.”

Two minutes later Don was standing in the reception area of the administration building, dialling. After three rings he heard his mother’s voice.

“ Hello ?”

“Hi, Mum. It’s Don. Mind if Kirstie and I bring some friends home for dinner?”

“ Oh my God ! Is it really you ? Where are you ? How are you ? ”

“We’re down at the mill, Kirstie and I and three friends. We just sailed in from San Francisco.”

“ I’ll send Samuel down to pick you up . He’ll be there in twenty minutes . Are you all right ? No , of course you are . Listen , I’ve got to hang up before I start crying or something silly like that . We’ll get things ready for you . Five people for dinner ?”

“Yes, Mum.”

“ I’ll see what I can do . By e.”

It was the same old Cadillac that Geordie had always sent to meet Don and Steve when they were coming home from summer camp or university. And Samuel the chauffeur was driving, wiry and trim as ever, dressed as always in a black suit, white shirt and blue bow tie. He walked from the car to the main gate, where Don and the others stood.

“Welcome home, Donald. And you, Kirstie. It’s good to see you both again. You’re looking well.”

“Samuel, you look marvellous. You haven’t changed a bit.” Don gave him an affectionate hug and introduced him to the others.

Everyone fit comfortably in the limousine, with Don and Kirstie in front and the three men stretching their legs in the rear.

“How does Geordie manage to pay a guard for the sawmill?” Don asked.

Samuel looked surprised. “With money, of course.”

“You’ve still got a money economy?” said Kirstie.

“Of course.”

“Is the federal government still in charge?” Don asked.

“Oh, no. Nor the provincial. We just have our local councils, working with the municipal governments.”

“Then how do you still have money?” Bill Murphy asked from the back seat.

“Why, it was… there. So we still use it. I know it doesn’t have any real backing, but then again they’re not printing any more, so it’s getting more valuable as it gets scarcer. Don’t you do the same sort of things in California?”

“It’s almost all barter,” said Don, “and a little scrip put out by the locals. Samuel, how on earth can you still run this old gas guzzler?”

“Ah,” said Samuel with a knowing smile. “It runs on natural gas now. We’ve still plenty of it coming down the pipeline from the north. And when gasoline got so scarce last year, I suggested to Mr. Kennard that we convert all our automobiles to natural gas. I expect most of these other cars run on it too — maybe a few on diesel, but that’s hard to find now.”

As the Cadillac carried them west and then north into the city, Kirstie saw Don fall still. He gazed out the window, a fist over his lips, and she realized he was nerving himself. What a strange man he was: full of physical courage, yet frightened and resentful of a frail old man. When he reminded her of the ancient grudges and unhealed wounds in the Kennard family, she was almost grateful for her own upbringing with her cousins.

Soon they were in Shaughnessy, the richest of the city’s neighbourhoods, but now looking shabby and decrepit.

“A lot of people have moved out of town,” Samuel said. “Gone off to their summer places in the Gulf Islands, or up into the Cariboo. Some have just moved in with friends. Cheaper than trying to keep warm in a big old house. Mr. Kennard would never do that, of course. He’d be just miserable anywhere but home.”

He turned in to a driveway flanked by yellowing laurel hedges. The grounds, covering half a good-sized city block, looked autumnal. A few brown leaves clung to the maples and alders; the monkeypuzzle trees had gone rusty orange. The fruit trees — cherry, plum, apple — were dead or dying except for a few small ones sheltering under plastic. Only the hemlocks and cedars seemed healthy.

Despite himself, Don felt a pang of sadness. This place had been a prison for him, and he was glad to have escaped, but it had always been beautiful; it did not deserve this scarring. The house itself, three stories of Victorian turrets and stone chimneys, looked older than he remembered it: the white paint was blistered and peeling, and the roof was mottled with dead moss. Around the house, the rhododendrons that Don’s mother had nurtured for years were masses of withered brown.

Elizabeth Kennard welcomed them at the door. She was tall, slim, her white hair piled into curls and contrasting sharply with her deep tan. She wore a pale silk blouse and a grey tweed skirt; Don thought she looked as if she were about to go off for an afternoon at the art galleries.

“You look wonderful,” she said, giving him a brisk, cheerful hug. He introduced Bill, Einar and Chief. “I’m delighted to meet you all. Of course you’re staying here. Samuel will show you to your rooms, and after you’ve had a chance to freshen up a bit, we’ll have drinks and then supper.

“Donnie and Kirstie, I made the mistake of letting Geordie know you were coming, and he insists on seeing you both at once. Do you mind? Good. It won’t be for long — he tires pretty quickly. Almost as quickly as I do.”

“Really, how is Geordie?” asked Don.

“Much frailer, but still his old self.” She lowered her voice. “Be careful what you say about Steve. We heard from the Commonwealth Antarctic Research Program just after the tidal waves. They told us a plane had been sent from New Zealand to evacuate Steve’s station, but it never came back. I’ve just told Geordie that they were all evacuated to New Zealand and we ought to hear from Steve any day now.”