Crawford Kilian: Tsunami: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller

“A submersible. One that could drill through that hull and attach a valve to it. Then I could just pump the stuff ashore, or onto a barge.”

“Where do I find a submersible?” The blond man looked at the floor. Allison glared at him. “Okay, thanks. You’re off the job.”

When the man had left, Allison sat thinking for a long time. Rain slashed against the glass behind the drawn curtains. A submersible. Would the Naval Postgraduate School know where one was? Some ex-employee of some defunct offshore-oil company?

The household was full of comings and goings, footsteps outside the closed-off living room and murmured voices in the kitchen. Someone tapped at the door: Lupe, announcing the doctor from Monterey. Allison went out to welcome him, and sent him upstairs with Lupe to see Shauna. Still thinking about salvage, Allison went back into the living room. He decided to talk to Ted. The guy was a pain in the ass, but he would know how to go about finding a submersible.

“Hipolito! Quiero hablar con Ted. Immediatamente.”

“Si, senor.”

But Hipolito was back in a minute, saying no one answered in the Loefflers’ quarters, and their door was locked.

— Oh Jesus, has he killed himself? And Suzi and Ken?

His Spanish deserted him. “Break down the goddamn door. Quick!” He nearly followed Hipolito outside, into the rainswept courtyard; thoughts of Frank Burk stopped him at the door. Hipolito loped back a few minutes later, holding a piece of paper.

Allison took the note. Bob Tony , you owe me a big one . I’ve called it in . Love , T .

“What the hell is this? — Hipolito, al garaje. Quizas Ted ha robado un automovil.”

When Hipolito returned, by now soaking wet, his face was grim. The Range Rover was gone. So were four jerry-cans of gas and two spare tires. Allison sent for Bert.

“The son-of-a-bitch won’t get far,” Bert told him. “Everybody in the Zone knows that truck.”

“They know him, too. The troops’ll just wave him through. Once he’s out of the Zone, somebody’s likely to wipe out the whole family for those jerrycans.”

“Out of the Zone?” Bert repeated. “Why?”

“I fired him yesterday. Then he asked to go back to L.A. I told him sure, but not on my gas.”

“Jesus.” Bert shook his head. “You’re right. Someone’s gonna knock him off. The dumb shit. Well, maybe we can still stop him. I’ll get couriers out.”

As he strode out of the room, the doctor entered. He was a tired young man with a wiry beard and dark rings under his eyes.

“Can I talk to you, Mr. Allison?”

“Sure, for a minute. We’ve got a small emergency.”

“You’ve got a big emergency too, I’m afraid.” The doctor dosed the door. Allison’s senses sharpened suddenly; he could smell the other man’s sweat and fatigue.

“Your wife is a very sick woman. I don’t think we can do much for her, except for the pain.”

“What are you talking about?” His own voice seemed to come from very far away.

“Your wife has malignant melanoma. It’s a kind of skin cancer, very rare, very serious. It’s well advanced and must be all over her body by now.”

“Malignant—”

“I’ve seen a lot more of it in the last year than most physicians see in a lifetime. Maybe it’s the ultraviolet. But I’m afraid I can’t offer you much hope, Mr. Allison. I’m sorry.

“You didn’t tell her.”

“No.”

“First smart thing I’ve heard you say. I don’t know where Colonel Mercer dug you up, but you can shove your diagnosis up your ass. Get out of here.”

The doctor’s eyes widened. “She’s going to need methadone, not just those analgesics she’s been using. I left enough to keep her comfortable—”

“Get out!”

“—for two weeks. By then there’ll be no arguing about it. I’ll be back in four or five days to check on her. Is there anyone else I should look at while I’m here?”

“Get out and don’t come back.”

The doctor shrugged into a dirty windbreaker and put on a black Stetson. “See you soon, Mr. Allison.”

Lupe came out of the kitchen. “Mister Allison, have you seen Sarah? It’s time for her snack.”

“I thought she was with you. She’s not upstairs. Go look in the basement.”

A few minutes later everyone in the house was searching for her. Lupe checked through the other buildings; nothing. Allison went back upstairs and searched. Sarah’s room was its usual mess; she wasn’t in the closet, or the bathroom, or under the bed.

When he returned to the kitchen, Bert was there, listening to Lupe’s shrill account of the search.

“Kids can be really creative hiders,” Bert said. “She’ll pop out in a minute, laughing her head off.”

“Don’t give me that shit. I want the whole compound gone over, inside and out. Don’t quit until you find her.”

“Okay. Hey, why don’t I get one of the twins? They might guess where she’s gone.”

“Good idea.” Allison waited impatiently until Bert came back with Ryan. The three-year-old was sleepy; the twins usually woke only after sundown.

“Ryan,” said his father. “Sarah is hiding. Do you know where she’s hiding?”

Ryan shook his head fuzzily, then collapsed on his father’s shoulder. “Think, Ryan. Does Sarah have a secret place, a hiding place?”

“Unga Teh.”

“What? Come on, Ryan.”

“Unca Ted. Said they goin’ shoppin’.”

Bert glanced at Allison. “When, Ryan?”

“Bedtime.”

“Five this morning,” Bert said. “He’s had seven hours.”

“That son-of-a-bitch. I’ll kill him. Where the fuck does he think he can take her? Back to L.A.?”

— Yes. It had to be. Allison pulled Ted’s note out of a pocket. Bob Tony , you owe me a big one . I’ve called it in . You owe me — Ted had said that as they drove away from the apartment building in Santa Monica with Sarah on his lap.

“He’s taking her back to Astrid. Jesus Christ, Bert, he’s insane. It’s three hundred miles. Somebody’s going to pick them off for sure, as soon as they’re out of the Zone.”

“We’ll see about that,” Bert muttered. “We put together a flying column, fifty or a hundred men, we’ll catch up. She’ll be back here by morning.”

“Do it.”

Around six that evening, a motorcycle engine bellowed and fell silent outside. The courier was in the house a few seconds later. He was a stocky Chicano, with zinc oxide smeared all over his lips and ears.

“Mr. Allison. Sergeant Chavez reporting. Colonel Mercer got an urgent message for you.”

Allison felt his legs trembling. Arms folded, he said: “Is it about Sarah?”

Chavez looked puzzled. “I dunno, sir.” He drew a brown envelope from an inside pocket of his fatigue jacket, and handed it over.

Allison tore the envelope open. He read the message twice before it made sense:

A tug with two barges anchored in the bay this afternoon. Right over the tanker. They say they’re from San Francisco and going to salvage the Sitka. No reply when I ordered them off Mercer.

“Chavez! Go get thirty men for escort duty in fifteen minutes. We’re going into Monterey.”

They had to carry Don on board Rachel , Bernie, the medical student, examined him while the tug’s engines warmed up.

“I think you’re gonna be lucky. You have a low threshold, okay, so it didn’t take much exposure or a very long latency period. But you’re also recovering fast. Another two days and you’ll be all right.”

“Two days of this? Christ.” The insides of his eye sockets felt full of grit; tears oozed continuously between his swollen lids. It took enormous effort not to rub at his eyes. The tiny cabin was dark, but even the light of Bernie’s pencil flash was painful.