Arthur Clarke - Richter 10

Mayor Withington stared hard at Newcombe. “I’d advise you to pack up your belongings and get out of here,” he said. “There’s not a cop in Tennessee who’ll protect you from those people out there.”

“You’ll be blessing us for being here before the day’s out, Mayor,” Newcombe said, turning from the man and walking back into the tent, Lanie on his heels. He padded onto the P fiber. “Burt … Burt, are you there?”

“Yeah, Doc Dan.”

“You keeping track of that lawyer Crane dragged down here from Memphis?”

“Yeah … he’s right here.”

“Crane’s been arrested. Give the lawyer his retainer from the cash box. Tell him to go into town tomorrow and work the bail—that’s if the jail’s still standing tomorrow.”

“Got it.”

“What the hell?” Lanie said. Dan blanked Hill and turned to her. She was watching the screens. Africks and Hispanics were pouring out of the city’s sewer system, firing guns into the air. They were hotwiring cars on the streets and driving off. Cars were bumper-to-bumper on State Highway 51, Elvis Presley Boulevard.

“What the hell’s going on?” Lanie asked.

“The start of the revolution,” Newcombe said, his mind screaming, And I did it!

“What time is it?” she asked.

“3:45,” he said without looking. “We’ve got less than two hours.”

The Memphis city jail was part of the new law enforcement complex built on the old station house at 201 Poplar Street in the aging section of town, five miles from the Mississippi River and down the street from U China Tennessee State and the tree-lined splendor of Audubon Park. Of course, the park’s trees had mostly died. The city fathers undertook a campaign years before of filling the dead branches with artificial leaves so that the city’s ambience could remain intact. And they constantly reminded everyone that it was beautiful winter or summer.

They took Crane and Whetstone into the station amidst confusion. The War Zone had just exploded from its nest and flowed into the city proper, the entire force mobilized to fight. But the Zoners appeared not to want to fight—only to flee.

Dozens of Muslims were being dragged into the station, all demanding they be given the right to leave the region. Crane was thrilled that somebody was listening to him.

By the time they were booked and thrown into the tank—the huge holding cell that was filled to capacity with angry Zoners yelling for freedom—it was 4:00 P.M. When the tank was filled to capacity, people were jammed into other cells, then the halls, the whole block being locked down tight.

And during the entire procedure, Crane had never stopped talking, never stopped speaking into Jimmy Earl’s camera, rigged not just for recording, but also for broadcast.

“Time is running short,” he said. “The people in here with me are from the War Zone. They are trying to escape the disaster.

“You must listen carefully to me if you want to save your lives. It’s too late, I fear, for you to escape if you haven’t already. So, get shoes on. Wear heavy clothing and pack a bag. Take dry goods, canned goods. Fill water bottles. Fresh water will be the thing you most need in the hours to come. Your biggest problem right now, though, is your home. Your home is full of death—flying glass will kill you; objects hanging on your walls or sitting on your mantels are deadly projectiles; chimneys will crush you; your water pipes are explosives; the roof of your own home could fall and bury you. Bricks are bombs; splinters are swords. Get out of your house.

“There are dead trees everywhere. Avoid them. Stay off the roads. Look for open ground. Remember, emergency services are set up in Capleville. If you can see the EQ-eco on your region, gravitate toward the less dangerous areas. There will be aftershocks, several hundred of them in the next few days, so keep moving toward the safe areas.

“Fresh water … fresh water. Please … fill bottles now. There’s not much—”

He heard it then, the low rumbling roar coming from beneath them. It suddenly got deathly quiet in the cell block as the noise increased.

“It’s here,” Crane said. “It’s here! Out of your homes! Now! Now!”

The roar was upon them, the cell floor buckling, throwing them all to the floor as the sidewalks, streets, and lawns outside began exploding.

Jimmy Earl screamed and grabbed the bars for support. The entire line of bars fell outward, on top of the men in the halls as the building shook, plaster dust raining down on them. The lights went out.

“Stoney!” Crane shouted. The floor rolled and pitched like a ship on stormy seas. The wail of human beings joined the sickening roar in a stentorian cry of despair. “Stoney!”

“C-Crane!” came the pained response. “Here … here!”

Crane cursed the cops for putting too many people in the holding tank. He crawled through the writhing mass of flesh on the rocking floor. Pieces of the ceiling were falling all around. He was alert, not scared. Death would toy with him for a long time before taking him.

“Crane!”

He found Whetstone in the corner of the cell, his face bleeding so much his white hair was bright red. His arm was broken, maybe his shoulder. Pieces of ceiling had crushed his rib cage.

“Your legs!” Crane screamed against the roar that seemed to go on forever, though he knew only half a minute had passed. “Can you stand?”

“Oh, God … Crane! The pain!”

“Can you use your legs?”

“I … I think so…”

“Then hang on.” Crane threw himself over Stoney, covering the man’s body as more of the ceiling fell in. But the rocking was less, the sound more distant. The first shock had passed.

He struggled to his feet; others did the same. He dragged Stoney while screaming, “Get out! Get out now! There’ll be more shocks.”

Huge holes were gouged through the walls. The prisoners straggled toward the light coming in from outside, Crane’s wristpad was bleeping. He kept hold of Stoney and opened the fiber with his nose. “What?”

“C-Crane?” It was Lanie. “Are you all right?”

“Barely,” he said. “It’s a mess here. I’m trying to get out of the jail now. What’s it look like?”

“All we can see is smoke on the helo views,” she said. “Nothing else. Smoke.”

“It’ll clear. I’ve got to go. I’ll get back with you. Tell Newcombe we cut it a little too close.”

He blanked and kept moving. It was difficult not to trip. Bodies littered the floor.

They made it into the middle of the hallway, jammed with people piling up in front of a hole in the wall. “We’ve got a safe exit,” he called to the crowd. “Nothing to worry about. We’re all decent people. Help one another through. We’re all right. We’ll stay all right.”

Jimmy Earl caught up with him just before he got through the hole, the man still framing CD, still making his “movie.” He helped get through the hole and out with Whetstone.

“Hang in there, you bastard,” Crane said to Whetstone who was moaning. Crane was afraid for his friend, whose breathing was ragged. “I owe you three billion bucks, Stoney. Don’t conk out on me.”

They got onto Poplar, a few cops walking around in a daze, their entire station house, all ten stories of it, collapsing, dust rising from the debris, the air tasting dirty.

Smoke rolled through the area. A haze of smoke, fires and dust burned their eyes. As near as Crane could see, Memphis was gone. The elevated roadways had crumpled like paper, the hospital that had blocked his view on the drive in simply wasn’t there anymore. He couldn’t see the fairgrounds, the smoke was too thick. What was left of the university was burning out of control. The streets, the sidewalks, the lawns had buckled under the Slip, then cracked, opening huge fissures all around them. There were geysers of city water shooting high into the air from broken mains.