Desmond Bagley - The Snow Tiger

After shouting his warning, McGill dropped into his own selected shelter, jostled by Ballard. He grabbed the telephone which had been installed by a mine electrician and rang the exchange which was busy. ‘For Christ’s sake, come on!’ he muttered.

He waited for ten seconds which were more like ten minutes before the operator, Maureen Scanlon, came on the line. He said quickly, ‘Plug me into John Peterson, Mrs Scanlon, and then get the hell out of there — fast.’

‘I understand,’ she said, and the ringing tone came into his ear.

‘John Peterson here.’

‘McGill. Get your people under cover. She’s coming down.’

‘What about Maureen Scanlon?’

‘I’ve told her to get out. You can see the exchange from where you are. Keep an eye open for her.’

‘Okay,’ Peterson slammed down the telephone and snapped at Bobby Fawcett, ‘Everyone downstairs. Move it, Bobby.’

Fawcett left the room on the run and Peterson looked out of the window at the telephone exchange up the street. The street was deserted with not a sign of movement. He thumped the table nervously and wondered what to do.

As soon as Mrs Scanlon had put the call through to Peterson she took off the headset, stood up, and lifted her coat from a hook. She knew exactly what to do because Peterson had told her. She was to join him in the old Fisher building, one of the few houses in town which had a basement. She did not bother to put on the coat but had taken only one step to the door when the switchboard buzzed at her. She turned back, plugged in and lifted the headset. ‘What number do you want?’

‘Maureen, this is Jim Hatherley at Matt Houghton’s house. Old Jack Baxter took a bad fall and we think he’s broken his leg. Do you think you can find Dr Scott?’

She bit her lip. ‘I’ll try.’ She plugged in a jack and rang Scott’s house.

In the Fisher house Peterson made up his mind. He ran from the room and into the hall. A freckled-faced fourteen-year-old girl was standing in the doorway, and he said, ‘Into the basement, Mary. On the double.’

The crackle of authority in his voice moved her body without her consciously willing it. But she said, ‘Where are you going?’

‘To fetch Mrs Scanlon.’ He ran out into the street, and Mary Rees went down into the basement to join the others.

Peterson ran up the empty street towards the telephone exchange. He reached the corner where a road ran off to the left towards the mine, cast a hurried glance along it, and skidded to a frantic halt. What he saw was incredible. The mist was gone and he could see as far as the mine, but that was not what held his attention. A building was flying through the air directly at him, disintegrating at it came, and in that split second he recognized the mine office block.

He jumped back and dived behind a concrete wall, landing heavily, and then he twisted over so that he could see. There was a fierce blast of wind in his face and then he saw the office block fall squarely on to the telephone exchange, obliterating it.

The wind gusted at him again and he felt a tremendous pain in his chest. Heart attack! he thought dimly, I’m having a heart attack. Even while fighting the pain he lost consciousness and died very soon thereafter.

In the basement of the Fisher house Mary Rees added her screams to those of the others as the structure collapsed overhead and something or someone fell on top of her. No one died in the basement but there were several serious injuries, including Mary’s broken leg.

In the Supermarket Phil Warrick looked about him and said with satisfaction, ‘We’ve just about got it cleared.’ He lifted the lid of the stove and dropped in some chunks of wood.

The Reverend Howard Davis, vicar of St Michael’s Anglican Church, agreed. ‘Just about,’ he said. ‘This will be the last load. He wheeled a pushcart before the biscuit counter and began to fill it with packets.

Warrick watched him and grinned. ‘McGill said no chocolate biscuits.’

‘I don’t know what Dr McGill knows about nutrition, but he certainly knows nothing about children,’ said Davis with a smile. ‘Chocolate biscuits are better than baked beans for keeping up morale.’

Warrick nodded. ‘I hope he knows what he’s doing about this avalanche. I swear my arms have lengthened two inches because of lugging around all these cases of canned food.’ He replaced the lid of the stove.

Davis regarded him with amusement. ‘Do you mean you’ll feel sorry if there is no avalanche?’

‘Oh, you know I don’t want an avalanche, but it would be a shame to see all this hard work go for nothing.’

‘I don’t want an avalanche, either, but there’s no harm in being prepared. If John Peterson is willing to have his store looted like this then he must believe McGill, and John is a level-headed man.’

A truck pulled up outside, and two men got out and came into the Supermarket. Warrick said, ‘Hi, Len... Dave.’

Len Baxter said, ‘That plane has come back. It’s still floating around up there. Wonder what he wants?’

‘He’s not going to land,’ said Warrick. ‘This fog’s too thick.’

Davis picked up a coffee-pot and put it on the stove top. ‘You’ll need something to warm you up.’

Dave Scanlon held out his hands to the stove. He wore a worried look. ‘That’ll go down well. I’ll swear it’s getting colder.’ He glanced at Davis. ‘I’m getting worried about Maureen. Someone said the exchange is too exposed.’

‘John Peterson told me he’d look after her,’ said Davis. ‘I’m sure she’ll be all right.’ He laid the back of his finger on the coffee-pot to test the heat. ‘Won’t be long.’

‘Got any more oil?’ asked Len.

‘Two more forty-five-gallon drums,’ said Warrick. ‘The last I could find. But we must have taken nearly six hundred gallons out of that tank.’

‘I was talking to one of the mine engineers up at Turi Buck’s place,’ said Len. ‘He’s fixing up a generator there. He said the diesel engine could use fuel oil at a pinch. I never knew that.’

Dave said, ‘I think I’ll go and check on Maureen after I’ve had some coffee.’

As Davis picked up a cup, Len Baxter said, ‘That reminds me. Does anyone know where my old man is? I’ve been so busy this morning I’ve lost track of things.’

‘He’s gone up to Matt Houghton’s house. McGill thought it was one of the safest places in the valley.’

Warrick nodded. ‘We discussed that in the council meeting. That and Turi Buck’s place are the two oldest houses. The kids have gone to Turi Buck and the old people to Matt’s place.’

‘Not all the kids,’ said Dave. He took a cup of coffee from Davis. ‘I saw Mary Rees just now.’

Warrick frowned. ‘Where?’

‘Here in town. She was standing in the doorway of the old Fisher house.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Davis. ‘It has a basement. That’s where Maureen will go. John Peterson organized all that.’

‘Where will you hide out?’ asked Len.

‘I will be in the church,’ said Davis firmly. His tone rejected any suggestion that he would be hiding anywhere.

Len considered it. ‘Not bad,’ he commented. ‘The church must be the strongest building here. The only one built of stone, anyway.’

Dave Scanlon finished his coffee. ‘I’ll just pop along and see Maureen, then I’ll be back to help you load.’ He waved his hand. ‘I’ve never seen the town so deserted, not even on Sunday.’

He turned to go, and froze in mid-stride. ‘The mist’s go...’

The three-ton truck parked outside was picked up bodily and thrown through the plate glass windows of the Supermarket like a monstrous projectile. Even as it came the building was collapsing around them. It had not been built too strongly in the first place and, hit by the giant fist of the avalanche, the showy false front sheared off and fell through the roof.