Crawford Kilian: Tsunami: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller

Two men sat before the windows of the office, dark outlines against the glare.

“Have a seat,” said one of them. Don blinked and squinted while his eyes adjusted. The man who had spoken was a bearded white man. He wore a wrinkled white cotton shirt, beige chinos and desert boots. He was self-consciously slumped back into his chair, as if trying to show himself relaxed and uninterested. His hands curled around the ends of his chair’s armrests, and his face was immobile. His eyes were narrowed to unreadable slits.

The black man in the other chair wore crisply pressed fatigues with gold eagles on the collar. His fingers were steepled in front of his lips; his deep-set eyes studied Don, inquisitive and calculating. This is the strong one, Don thought. The other guy is ready to snap.

“You’re Donald Kennard? I’m Robert Anthony Allison. This is Colonel Mercer. Let’s cut the horse-trading bullshit and get down to it. What’s your bottom-line offer?”

Don was not surprised by Allison’s abruptness. “Ten per cent of all the oil and gas we take out of the tanker. You can collect your first instalment day after tomorrow.” Mercer looked surprised and a little impressed. Allison only frowned and shook his head.

“We need enough fuel to sustain a hundred thousand people for as long as possible.”

“Okay, you’ve got a hundred thousand people? We’ve got three million. The Sitka’s got about four hundred thousand tonnes of fuel left in her tanks. Our share will carry us for four or five months. Ten per cent ought to carry you easily for a year, maybe two.”

“Mr. Kennard, I said for as long as possible. Our share will be fifty per cent. That gives us five years, maybe longer, by your calculations.”

“Look, you won’t need that much fuel. In four to six months we’re switching over to methane, produced by bacteria. By this time next year we plan to be exporting energy all over California.” Don saw Mercer’s eyes widen. “We’ve got genetic engineers working on it. We need the Sitka’s fuel to buy time to develop the methane.”

“For Christ’s sake, how fucking dumb do you think I am? How the hell do I know you’re gonna have methane or alcohol or vanilla ice cream? I know this: that tanker’s got fuel, and I want all I can get. All right, you people have the equipment and the know-how. But we’ve got guns that can turn you into scrap iron on the bottom of the bay. Fifty per cent of the tanker’s cargo goes to us, off the top. You can have whatever’s left.”

Don thought for a moment. “If I agree to those terms, thousands of people in San Francisco will die. I’ll go to fifteen per cent, delivered concurrently with our own shipments. Nothing more.”

“Then you have no deal, my friend.” Allison stood up. “You’ll be escorted back to your boat. I expect your ship to be out of the bay before sunset. If it’s not, we’ll sink it.”

“Uh, just a minute,” Mercer said. “Mr. Kennard, would you mind stepping outside for a minute? I need to talk something over with Mr. Allison.”

“Sure.”

The dim corridor was a relief after the glare in the office. Don took off his glasses and wiped his eyes; they hurt again. He was distantly aware of taking quick, impatient steps down the moldy, half-rotten carpeting. How had such jerks ended up running the lives of a hundred thousand people? Neither one would qualify for a neighbourhood committee in the Bay Area, but here they had all the weapons of a major army post, and the manpower to use it.

Mercer at least seemed interested in Don’s offer. He must realize that it was fifteen per cent or nothing. If Mercer could only be made to see that he’d get nowhere with Allison —

“Mr. Kennard? Like to come back in, please?” Mercer called.

Don paced into the office and sat down. Allison was slumped even deeper in his armchair, his chin on his chest.

“Colonel Mercer’s suggested an alternative, Mr. Kennard. For the sake of fairness I’m willing to consider it, and at least see your reaction to it. A sixty-forty split, in your favour, divided as you bring the oil up. That seems pretty reasonable to me.”

Don listened to Allison and wished he could see the man’s face more clearly. The voice was thick, monotone.

“It sounds like a step in the right direction,” Don answered slowly. “But the proportions are still wrong. We need the fuel to buy time to develop the methane. That’ll benefit all of us. What do you think you’ll use after all the tanker’s fuel is gone?” He kept his eyes on Allison but was aware of Mercer’s gaze, steady and unblinking. “I gave you a no-bullshit offer, fifteen per cent, and that’s as high as I can go. Now, that’s sixty thousand tonnes of real fuel. All this fifty-fifty, sixty-forty crap is fifty per cent of nothing , forty per cent of nothing . Without us, there’s no way you can salvage that fuel. Can you understand that, Mr. Allison?”

Allison’s face contorted; suddenly he grabbed Don’s shirt and yanked him to his feet.

“Schmuck! Think you can fuck me around? Nobody talks to me like that, nobody!” His breath was sour in Don’s face; his eyes were wide now.

“Sixty thousand tonnes, Mr. Allison.” He kept his voice level. It was Mercer he was speaking to.

Allison slapped Don across the face, knocking his glasses off. Don winced, more at the stab of light than the slap, and fought against the urge to strike back. Half-blind and unarmed, he would win nothing in a fight. But Mercer would have to read him correctly, as he must already have read Allison.

“Sixty thousand—”

Allison shoved him backward, and he toppled over with his chair. Before he could move, Allison kicked him in the belly, then in the head.

“Asshole,” Allison said. Then he looked at Mercer: “Haul him out of here and shoot his fucking brains out.”

“Hey, hold on. Let’s just put him back in his boat, all right? We kill him, we don’t know what we’re getting into, you know? We got enough trouble.”

Allison tucked in his shirt with trembling hands. “Nobody treats me like that, Odell. Nobody. Now, get this cocksucker downstairs and see that he’s shot. Do you understand me?” he added shrilly.

“Yeah, yeah, awright.” Shrugging, Mercer went to the door and bellowed for guards. Three soldiers hustled up from the lobby. Mercer helped them carry Don downstairs.

“Park this dude in the basement for a while,” Mercer muttered to his men as they lurched downstairs. “In the broom closet, with the door locked.”

As they crossed the lobby, a soldier ran in past the sentry.

“I got an urgent personal message for Mr. Allison, Colonel. Is he here?”

“Upstairs,” Mercer answered. “Room two-oh-seven.” He saw that Don was securely locked away, then went slowly back up the stairs. He got to the lobby just in time to see Allison running through the door, across the lawn to where his red Mercedes 450 SL was parked. By the time Mercer got outside, the car was gone. He went back inside and found the messenger.

“Awright, what was that all about?”

“Uh, Mrs. Allison is dead, sir. Looks like she took an overdose of somethin’. That Mexican housekeeper found her.”

“Oh shit, and that crazy fucker’s gone off by himself. Okay, gimme a detail of six men out front, right now!” Mercer roared at the cardplayers across the lobby. “And get that goddamn truck out here, the deuce and a half!”

Allison drove fast, windows rolled up against the stink of Monterey. A glass bottle exploded across the hood; he scarcely noticed, except to pat his chest for his shoulder holster. It wasn’t there — he’d forgotten to put it on when they’d left the ranch. No wonder, with everything happening at once. The earthquake, Ted, Sarah, the doctor, then these turkeys in the bay, and now Shauna —