Crawford Kilian - Tsunami - A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller

Late in the afternoon, Einar Bjarnason came up the road. He looked tired and gaunt.

“The executive sent me to find you,” he told Kirstie. “They want us to take Rachel to Monterey Bay as soon as possible.”

Kirstie laughed bitterly. “At this rate, that’ll be a year or two.”

“I think they mean tonight or tomorrow. They need fuel right away to cope with all this.”

“Well, in that case we may have to go without Don. He lost his sunglasses, and he’s been doing rescue work outside all day without them. Now he’s snow blind.”

Allison woke up suddenly around seven in the morning — the dead of night on Escondido Valley time. The bed was shaking. He snapped at Shauna to be still, but she didn’t answer, and the shaking got worse. Downstairs, something shattered on the kitchen floor.

“Oh shit,” Allison muttered. He rolled out of bed and strode to the doorway into Sarah s room. The curtains were parted a little; he could see her sleeping, curled up with her knees under her and her thumb in her mouth. The windowpanes rattled, and Allison hesitated. The doorway was a safer place to be, if the quake got worse, but he didn’t want to rouse her needlessly. Almost any surprise seemed to set her off into hysterics these days.

“Bob?” That was Shauna, awake at last.

“Daddy?”

He walked casually into Sarah’s room and picked her up, just as a windowpane cracked.

“What’s happening?” She clung to him, warm in her flannel nightie.

“Just a little earthquake. See — it’s going away already.”

He carried her into the other bedroom, where Shauna lay curled in bed. Allison turned on a battery lantern rather than open the curtains. In the white electric light, Shauna looked drawn and pale despite her tan.

“All over, see? You guys slept through the best part of it.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” said Shauna. “It was a big one.” As she sat up, he was struck by how much thinner she’d become. Her collarbones, framed in the neckline of her nightgown, jutted; the bones of her face stood out sharply.

“Let’s go get some breakfast,” Allison said as he carried Sarah downstairs. “Hope the kitchens not too messed up.” Why wasn’t Shauna eating more? They had plenty of food, most of it canned but still perfectly good. Something must be bugging her; when she was ready to talk, he’d be ready to deal with it.

The kitchen was a mess: pots and pans still swung on their hooks above smashed bowls and plates that had cascaded from the cupboards. The big refrigerator was all right, but the little one had toppled. In the dawn twilight, filtered through the curtains, it all looked depressing.

Bert came in from the D’Annunzios’ quarters in the old bunkhouse, wearing jeans and carrying a .45.

“Jesus, if it ain’t the sheriff,” Allison bellowed clownishly, trying to relax Sarah. “Put down your shootin’ arn — we give up.”

“Getting to be second nature,” Bert said, putting his pistol on a countertop. “Man, some shake. The twins are screaming their heads off.”

Allison matter-of-factly got milk — powdered but palatable — out of the big fridge, and cut a slice of corn bread. Smeared with margarine and cherry jam, it was Sarah’s favourite breakfast. She settled down to it, oblivious of the mess, and Allison began to cheer up a little. At least she wasn’t freaking. He lit the Coleman stove and made instant coffee as others began coming in: Hipolito and Lupe, Ted and Suzi Loeffler, Diana Marston, and Sergeant Hoops — a sergeant major now, just as Odell Mercer was now a colonel. When the babble got too loud, Allison banged a spoon on the coffee pot.

“Okay! We got some clean-up and maintenance. Bert, check the fences and booby traps. Burk might try to take advantage of the uproar.”

Ted Loeffler rolled his eyes and sighed.

“Something the matter?” Allison asked quietly.

“No, kemo sabe. I just wish you’d get over Frank Burk.”

“You think I might be getting paranoid? Got any doubts about my judgment?”

“No, no. You just come on like the Sheriff of Nottingham waiting for Errol Flynn.”

“Ted — we’re not in the movie business any more, okay?”

Allison assigned jobs, asked questions, demanded answers. He authorized two hours’ generator time and two gallons of gas for Hoops’s jeep, so he could run down to Carmel to see how things were. The radio was out of action; judging by the static, Allison guessed that another solar flare had hit overnight.

When the impromptu meeting broke up, Ted caught Allison’s eye: “Can you give me a minute, Bob Tony?”

Ted sat down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees and hands folded almost prayerfully before his face.

“Okay, for openers I’m sorry about the wisecracks. In the old days, I thought you were maybe off base, a joke or two and you’d see what the problem was. Not now, and I realize it’s the wrong way to deal with what we’re facing. If I wasn’t so frazzled and uptight I’d just say, ‘Hey, do whatever’s right,’ and — instead, gee, I’m ready to—”

Allison waited in silence while Ted composed himself.

“I — I guess I feel like we’re operating under false pretences.”

“False pretences,” Allison nodded. “Want to expand on that?”

“Bob Tony, we’ve gotten to be a sovereign fucking state. You noticed that? We tax people, we feed people, we shoot a hell of a lot of ‘em. I don’t know if that’s what Suzi and Ken and I signed on for.”

“Ted, none of us did. It was just one damn thing after another.”

“Hey, I know it. But I don’t know if we’re really coping.”

Allison raised his eyebrows. He waved a hand at the room, at the women’s bustle and clatter as they cleaned up the kitchen. “We’re a running organization. No small thanks to you.”

“Oh, sure, Bob Tony. But what’s it doing to us?”

Keeping us alive and well, Allison wanted to shout. Instead he said, “Tell me.”

“Not only can’t I sleep, I can’t get it up. Never before. I’ll spare you the details. And it’s not like I’m confessing, okay? I’m just starting with me and Suzi. Who is sleeping fine, on Demerols. And Ken has nightmares and goes two days at a time without talking to anybody.

“Then there’s Bert. See the way he loses his temper? Man, remember how he blew away that kid in the Trans Am, the night we left L.A.? That was just for openers. Bob Tony, he’s killed five people so far. That I know of. For diddlyshit things. Holding back on a case of powdered milk, for God’s sake, so he shoots the family’s oldest boy.”

“Does Mercer have the details on that one?”

“Mercer’s got the details on everything.”

“I know where you’re coming from. Okay, how about me?”

Ted looked at him. “Want it straight, or funny?”

“Straight.”

“Bob Tony, you haven’t been out of this house in over three weeks. You won’t let us even open the curtains. You’ve lost what, fifteen pounds? The more you try to run things, the less you look like you’re doing it.”

“Anything else?”

“Shauna’s sicker than hell, and nobody’s done a thing about it, because she doesn’t talk about it and neither do you.”

“Everybody’s got skin troubles, Ted. And the runs, and flu, and we got typhus and typhoid in Salinas and Watsonville. All the doctors are working their butts off.”

“Jesus, Bob Tony, call one in for a day and have him just take a look at her, would you? She’s lost twenty-five, thirty pounds. She coughs all the time, she hardly ever talks, and she’s doing some kind of drugs.”

“Shauna is a big girl; if she’s really feeling bad she’ll tell me. And she’s not taking drugs.”