Crawford Kilian: Tsunami: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller

He was still about a mile from the Carmel Valley turnoff when the second wave came in. Allison saw it first as a geyser erupting around the rocks of Carmel Point — a geyser that rose higher and higher, then vanished as the crest of the wave rolled over the point and onto the wreckage-strewn beach.

Hidden behind its own spray, the wave rolled over the ruins like a fog bank. When it struck the wall of debris left by the first wave, it shot straight up, higher than the few trees still left standing; then it curved and fell roaring onto the steep slope below the road.

Allison turned into the empty northbound lanes and jammed the accelerator to the floor. Rain and spray mixed in a dense grey cloud too thick for the windshield wipers; he guided himself by the line of red taillights to his right. Just a few hundred yards now, and he’d be on the road up the valley.

The taillights, glowing blurrily, suddenly drifted closer. A little orange car materialized in front of the Mercedes, skidding slowly sideways —

He felt the wave hit: a foot deep, still powerful, thick with debris. It swept across his side of the highway with a grinding noise. Cars were all over the road now, crunching together and spinning apart. The Mercedes drifted left, almost to the concrete barrier at the side of the road, before its tires came back into solid contact with the pavement. Allison had automatically put the car in neutral; now he gently tested the brakes. They felt mushy, but they worked. The car stopped. He pressed a button to retract the top, another to lower the windows. Rain drenched the leather seats. He put his hat on and looked around.

The wave was retreating from the highway in a sheet of chocolate-brown water, leaving an uneven layer of branches, lumber, rocks and mud on the asphalt. Wedged against the right front wheel of his car was the body of a German shepherd, its teeth bared and its fur caked with mud.

A young woman in jeans got out of a stalled Audi nearby and ran screaming across the road towards the hillside below the school. She stepped on the corpse of a small child and ran on without stopping.

Allison stood up on his seat. A few cars were turning around, skidding in the mud, and heading back north. To the south, a van lay on its side. Water sounds assaulted him: the hiss of rain, the roar of the ebbing wave as it ran in torrents back through the smashed village. Not far from the road, someone was screaming for help.

He slid down behind the wheel and put the car in first. The tires spun, flinging mud and pebbles against the underside, and then found traction. Slowly, slipping through mud and bumping over rocks and shattered lumber, Allison drove south to the turnoff. — Don’t let me hit any nails, he prayed. God, please, no nails, no glass.

Other cars followed him, weaving around those deserted by their drivers. In his rear view mirror, Allison saw three or four men leave their cars and stumble downhill into the ruins.

They wouldn’t get far; neither would he, if he were fool enough to follow them. Better to get home, change, and come back with Hipolito. If Shauna was in Carmel she was almost certainly dead anyway. Tears stung his eyes.

Rain soaked into his Stetson, and the brim began to sag. The sheepskin collar of his jacket smelled of wet wool. He drove slowly, avoiding the bodies scattered among the wreckage; weeping, he turned onto Carmel Valley Road, into country that had seemed forlorn this morning but now looked like an untouched paradise.

A silver Jaguar came around a corner, headed west. Allison saw it from half a mile away, braked, and pulled off the road. He flashed his headlights, then leaned on the horn. Shauna cut smoothly across the road and halted just in front of the Mercedes. He saw her face in the spattered semicircle of clear windshield and giggled at her surprised expression. The giggles took a long time to stop.

Deliberately, savouring the moment, he got out and splashed over to her. She rolled her window down.

“What in God’s name are you doing, Bob? And what have you done to the car?”

Allison glanced back and noticed absently that the sides and front of the Mercedes were scratched and gouged. He turned to her, reaching out to touch her cheek, her perfect dark hair.

“Kid, y’know — you’re cute enough to be in the movies. Anybody ever tell you that?”

“Are you ripped? Driving the Mercedes with the goddamn top down, and it looks like you were in an accident, and all you — “

“Turn around. We’ve got to get home.”

“Hey, I’m getting all wet. — Oh shit, was there an accident? Are you okay?”

“Turn around, kid. I’ll follow you home. Tell you about it there.”

She nodded slowly, looking scared, and rolled her window up. The Jaguar boomed in reverse, off the shoulder and onto the rainswept pavement.

Allison followed close behind her, without bothering to put the top back up. His sodden clothes made him shiver. But he felt very clear-headed. Just an hour or two ago he’d been dithering, planning a movie one moment and worrying about social collapse the next. The time for doublethink was past; middle-class paranoia was a futile self-indulgence now.

He made his plans swiftly and easily. Every step fell into place, like the preproduction phase of making a film. By the time the two cars turned up into Escondido Canyon, most of the details of the plan were set, most of the contingencies were allowed for. One question remained, and it hung in his mind all the way back to the ranch: How do I get Sarah up here?

Plummet pitched and swung wildly as it was hoisted up and onto Ultramarine’s deck. They were hove-to in the lee of the Farallon Islands, thirty kilometres west of San Francisco, but the sea here was calm only in comparison to the storm-driven waves nearby.

Don crawled to the rear of Plummet’s cabin. Grunting, he straightened up and opened the hatch. Rain sluiced down on him as he climbed out.

A couple of crewmen helped him down from the superstructure; he was stiff and clumsy, and a little dizzy.

“How do you feel?” one of the crewmen asked.

“Okay.” He turned to look at the sub. “Poor Plummet .”

Ignoring the rain, Don walked around the submersible. He had seen at once, when the hatch opened, that the sail — a metal skirt around the hatch — had been torn away. Plummet’s bright yellow paint was pitted and chipped, in many places right down to the steel. Rocks had gouged and dented the hull; the protective screens around the propellers were clogged with gravel. The manipulator arm was mangled.

“I hope Owen won’t be too sore when he sees this.”

“He already has.” The crewman pointed to the bridge, where two pale faces showed through rain-blurred windows. Don waved; the men waved back.

He left the deck and went down a corridor to his tiny cabin; on the way he met Shirley Yamamura, the ship’s doctor. She cleaned the gash on his scalp and put a bandage over it.

“A real turbidity current, huh? You’re lucky,” she remarked.

“Pretty sloppy kind of luck. Ow.”

“Poor baby. No, really — too bad it didn’t happen when the networks were still operating. You’d’ve been the biggest thing since Cousteau.”

“Maybe I’m lucky at that: What’s happened to San Francisco?”

“They’ve had at least three big tsunamis, maybe four or five. I’m afraid I’m going to be awfully busy when we get back.” Her lined face was set. “See you later.”

Don got out of his wet, bloodstained clothes and pulled on dry jeans and a red flannel shirt. Then he went up to the bridge.

Except for the rattle of rain on the windows, the bridge was quiet and dim. Bill Murphy, the skipper, stood beside Owen Ussery, the ship’s chief scientist. Bill was a short, compact man with a soupstrainer moustache and curly black hair that stuck out around a Giants baseball cap. The cap, together with his wrinkled plaid shirt and brown corduroys, made him look more like a suburban father than a master mariner. Owen was tall and thin, with a long sallow face and short white hair. He wore a baggy grey cardigan and shapeless blue slacks tucked into gumboots.