Crawford Kilian - Tsunami - A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller

It was a lie, that was for sure. She was sick as hell all right, and she might have overdosed, but she wasn’t dead. He’d pull her out of it. God damn all these fucking people with their demands, dragging him away from his family.

He felt frightened and angry and exposed. Everything was falling apart, everyone was fading away. He was acting foolishly and impulsively, running around alone and unarmed like this. Get into a normal pattern, start thinking rationally again. By God, when they brought Ted back the bastard was going to suffer before he died. Sarah… please let her be all right, please Bert, find her safe and get her home.

Allison hurried on over the hill to Carmel. He saw little bands of refugees, trudging north towards whatever shelter they could find in Monterey or Fort Ord. They looked like tramps: dirty, skinny, some of them bleeding, carrying or dragging a few ratty possessions. What the hell had made him think these people were worth doing anything for? Why hadn’t he stayed in Escondido Valley, instead of trying to save this inhabited ruin? He swung hard left onto Carmel Valley Road, remembering the lurch the car had made when the wave ran across the highway on that stormy afternoon long ago.

Long ago: Shauna’s silver Jag coming the other way, with Shauna living the last few seconds of an ordinary life. She would have been luckier if the waves had caught her in Carmel, if she had suffered only a moment’s surprise instead of this. And if he’d left Sarah with Astrid, and if the Loefflers had stayed in L.A. with Bert and poor dead Dave Marston. Then he and Shauna could have stayed on at the ranch with Hipolito and Lupe, minding their own business. Letting the survivalists rip off the Brotherhood, letting everything go to hell at its own chosen speed, not trying to save things and people not worth saving.

No. He could sorrow over some things and be angry over others, but he regretted nothing. He’d done his best, and without him things would have been worse.

The long-dead fields were streaked with the black slime of decayed vegetation. How long had it been since he’d seen a cow or horse grazing, even in those stupid goggles? Stumps and scattered slash were all that remained of the oaks and eucalyptus, fruit trees and pines and cypresses that had adorned the valley.

The entrance to Escondido Valley was still wooded, by Allison’s order, though most of the trees were dead or dying. Allison slowed and turned. Something banged the right front tire, and the car swerved and stalled. From the tilt of the fender, he realized he had blown the tire. Swearing, he put on his Stetson and got out.

The tire was ripped to bits. He got the jack and tool kit from the trunk and went to squat beside the wheel. As he did, he saw a small hole in the fender: a bullet hole.

Allison’s hands began to shake. He reached for the tire iron, his eyes still on the hole. The only sounds were wind in the leafless branches on the hillside, and water splashing down the creek bed on the other side of the road.

They must be up on the south side of the entrance to the valley: a lot of trees up there, dead brush, plenty of cover and a good view of anyone coming up from the west. He was lucky they hadn’t hit him. If he could get around the car, roll over the shoulder of the road, and get down into the creek bed, he could cross the creek and find cover in the woods on the opposite hillside. Then work his way up to the first checkpoint and safety.

He flipped off the hubcap and stood up, walked to the rear of the car with the tire iron still in his hand, a weary motorist doing a chore. With the trunk lid concealing him, he threw himself over the edge of the road.

Stones rattled around him; he went over and over, both hands clenched on the tire iron. The world spun around him and he splashed into a shallow pool. Up, stride, splash, umph .

He was lying on his back in the pool, wondering if he’d already gotten up or had just imagined it. The tire iron was gone. Never mind. Up, get across the creek. Up. Up.

He realized that he couldn’t get up. His hands moved; he could lift his head. His back felt cold and wet, but not his legs. His legs felt nothing. When he looked down at them, he saw red clouds and tendrils in the water.

“I can’t be shot,” he said.

Two men loomed above him, dark outlines against the bright haze of the summer sky.

“Mr. Allison,” said the taller of the two. “I’m Frank Burk. Remember me?”

Allison was sure he’d heard the name before, but couldn’t place it. “Help me up. I think I’m hurt.” The men seemed to be receding; perhaps they couldn’t even hear him. “Give me a hand. Please.”

“Allison, don’t you know who I am? Frank Burk.”

“Yeah… yeah. I think we’ve met. Maybe in Monterey? I’ve got a ranch up near there. Please, help me up.”

“Oh fuck,” said Burk.

Allison heard another bang, very close. Something hurt in his chest.

Help me up, he tried to say. I have to bring Sarah home.

The men were gone. The sky was gone. The water was gone. Then the pain was gone.

Don came to in chilly darkness, lying on a cold cement floor. His stomach hurt, and when he lifted his head he gasped with pain. It was very quiet.

He got to his feet and groped around in the darkness. In one corner of the tiny room was a big sink, with faucets that worked; he cupped his hands and drank a little water. Feeling his way across mop handles and buckets and shelves full of dusty boxes, he found nothing that might get him through the locked door, or that might be used as a weapon. When they came for him, his one chance would lie in surprise — a sudden assault, maybe seizing a weapon from whoever opened the door, and then somehow getting out of the building and down to the Zodiac.

Kirstie had been right again, as she usually was. These guys were insane, and he’d been dumb enough to think they could be bargained with. He missed her. He missed his mother and brother, too, and Geordie. He remembered the old guy saying he hoped to live long enough to see the end of the world. Well, he had a better chance of that now than his grandson did. Don had a confused, dreamlike memory of Allison ordering Mercer to shoot him. For some reason the moment had been postponed, but surely it would come soon.

After what seemed like a long time, he heard footsteps coming down a flight of stairs and then down a hallway towards him: a single man, walking briskly. The man rapped twice on the door.

“Mr. Kennard? It’s Colonel Mercer. I’m lettin’ you out now. Please don’t try anything, okay? Everything’s cool.” Keys jingled, and the door swung open. Without his sunglasses, the dimness of the basement was bright enough to make him squint. He snorted with amusement at his fantasies of a bold escape. With his eyes, he’d have run into the nearest wall.

“Eyes still hurt, huh? Here’s your shades. You want to come upstairs, have something to eat?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

They went upstairs, back to the same office, past a deserted lobby. It was mid-afternoon. Mercer drew the curtains across the cracked glass in the windows.

“I’m really sorry about all that, stickin’ you down in the closet. Allison was all hot to shoot you, so I thought I better just get you out of his sight for a little while.”

“Thanks. I take it Allison’s calmed down.”

“Wow.” Mercer laughed silently for a moment and then shook his head. “He’s dead, Mr. Kennard. He got ambushed by a couple of crazy dudes he’d been scared of for months. His wife had just killed herself with methadone. Found out she was dying of cancer, you know? He got the message and took off without a bodyguard, and we followed him. Got there just in time to take care of the crazies, but it was too late for Allison.”