Crawford Kilian: Tsunami: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller

“At least the Reds have the same problems, right?”

The general’s grin returned. “Worse. We hear rumours that a couple of their missiles have blown up in their silos due to electronic malfunction.”

“They didn’t—?”

“Not nuclear explosions, no. But they showed that the Reds can’t trust their hardware. We can’t either.”

“Should I even be hearing this?”

“It’s common knowledge, Bob. These damn flares have the upper atmosphere all churned up. Launch a missile, you can’t tell if it’ll come close enough to its target to take it out.

“Are you telling me World War Three’s been postponed because of the weather?”

Both men laughed and turned their attention to lunch. But within a minute or two Miles was brooding again about his troubles.

“The kids in basic training are taking it hard. At least the whites and Chicanos. They’re mostly farm boys, small town boys, they worry when they see what the UV is doing to the land. Then Mama writes a letter about how all the horses went blind and had to be shot — boy, you got a kid with a problem.

“What about the blacks?”

“Thank the good lord for those boys. They can take a dose of UV that would fry an egg, and they’re city kids — they don’t know what colour grass is supposed to be. Except maybe the kind they smoke. We’d be out of business without ‘em. You know, they’re actually getting a kick out of all this.”

“A kick?”

“Sure. The rest of us can’t go outside without gloves and all that crud on our faces, except at night. The black boys think it’s funnier’n hell. Well, I guess it is. We got the world’s first indoor army.”

Allison saw the chance to make his move. He raised his glass of Perrier: “Here’s hoping the ozone will be back by June, or I’ll have to shoot The Longrangers in a studio.”

“Ah! Tell me about it.”

Allison launched into his spiel, knowing Miles would be interested and sympathetic; the general had commanded long-range reconnaissance and patrol outfits in Vietnam. The pitch was going well, and Miles was nodding enthusiastically, when a stocky, red-faced captain burst in.

“Sir — sorry to disturb you, but we’ve got an urgent message from the Presidio in San Francisco. Uh, some kind of tidal waves are coming up the coast. They say San Diego and L.A. got clobbered, and Vandenberg—” He stopped himself, looking suspiciously at Allison.

“Spit it out, Captain.”

“Vandenberg Air Force Base reports heavy casualties and extensive damage. They expect the waves to reach the Monterey area about twelve-twenty. That’s ah, twelve minutes from now. sir.”

The general looked more annoyed than alarmed. “Okay. I don’t think this will amount to much, but evacuate the firing ranges at once, and the dependents’ quarters within half a mile of Highway One. Get everyone moved east of North-South Road. Notify the hospital, fire services and MPs. And get me a chopper out in front of this place by twelve-fifteen.”

“Yes, sir!” The captain vanished, leaving the door ajar; the hum from the main dining room, downstairs, seemed to change pitch.

Miles rose from the table. “Well, Bob, looks like we’ll have to get together another time real soon. Sorry about this. I don’t think we’ll have any real trouble, but no sense taking chances. Boy — if Vandenberg got flooded, they must be some big waves.”

The general was already halfway to the door. “Remember me to that lovely wife of yours.”

— Oh Christ, thought Allison, she’s in Carmel.

Allison followed Miles out and raced to his car. Just as he was unlocking it, the fort’s PA system thundered into life: loud-speakers bawled unintelligibly, the noise blurring into echoes. Sirens moaned. Allison backed out of the parking slot and roared onto the street.

The main exits would be jammed with trainees from the rifle ranges pouring across Highway 1. He’d do better taking North-South Road and coming out at the southwest corner of the fort.

Once past the dependents’ housing, Allison met little traffic, and soon reached Highway 218. He used a roundabout route to get back onto Highway 1 on the south side of Monterey; Carmel was only four or five miles farther on. He drove fast, splashing through flooded stretches of the road.

Belatedly, Allison turned on the car radio and tried to get KMPX, but it was off the air. He tried 640, the emergency frequency, but heard only a high-pitched whine. He switched off, swearing.

Sirens were screaming as he neared the junction with Highway 1: ambulances and police cars blocked off the streets leading down to the water. Even without radio, word had travelled fast in Monterey. Cars were almost bumper-to-bumper, heading for the high ground on the road to Carmel.

— Why was the engine running so loudly? He downshifted into second; the noise was louder. It wasn’t the car. The whirring, rasping roar was coming from the north, from the waterfront.

The roar ended suddenly with a single sharp boom; the Mercedes shuddered as the pavement thumped beneath it. What sounded like machine-gun fire followed almost at once. Crossing Pacific, Allison got a clear look down to the waterfront.

It was gone. A black-and-white wall of water stood where the beach and wharves had been. The crest of the wave was level with the roof of a four-story building, which exploded when the water struck it.

A long tentacle from the wave shot up Pacific, a white mass twenty feet high and moving fast. It overtook a yellow Datsun station wagon, flipped it over, and engulfed it. The front of the tentacle was armoured in debris — boats, trees, fragmented walls, chunks of concrete, a long black shaft that must have been a piling from one of the piers.

The wave slowed long before it could reach the intersection, but Allison didn’t pause. He spun the Mercedes around a stalled Volkswagen and accelerated. Others had the same idea and blocked him, until he turned on his headlights and leaned on the horn. Like sheep before a barking dog, the other cars drew aside and let him by.

Away from town, the broad highway to Carmel was crowded with cars moving slowly and steadily in both directions. Allison wondered whether Carmel had somehow escaped, until he glimpsed a sobbing woman sitting in the back of a northbound pickup truck. They’d got it, all right. He watched the oncoming cars, looking for Shauna’s Jaguar.

He came over the ridge and looked south. West of the highway, almost nothing was left of Carmel. Trees, houses, the tea shops and boutiques on Ocean Avenue — they were all just wreckage now. Men and women ran or walked up the road, many without protection against the driving rain; many didn’t even have sunglasses, and their eyes were vague and unfocussed with shock. One bearded man, barefoot and wearing only a T-shirt and jeans, slapped the hood of the Mercedes as he shambled past.

“Hey man, too bad, show’s over. You missed all the fun. Missed all the goddamn fun!” The man went on up the line of cars, shouting and laughing.

The wave had almost reached the highway before receding. No one was trying to keep traffic out of the ruined village; most of the drivers pulled off the road and abandoned their cars, running downhill through the wreckage to look for family or friends. Allison shook his head and muttered, “Morons.” It was obvious that anyone caught in the western, downhill part of Carmel was dead. All the little doll-house cottages, the stores and restaurants, were smashed flat and scattered up the hillside like driftwood. Muddy water ran in streams through the debris. Carmel Bay was a mass of heaving water that looked like boiling milk.

Uphill from the highway, the high school and the houses around it looked almost obscenely normal. Kids and teachers were crowded against the chain-link fence on the edge of a playing field, gaping down the hill. One of them had vaulted the fence and was standing on the hillside above the road, a portable videotape camera held to his face. Allison admired the kid’s presence of mind.