David Palmer - Emergence

Okay! Was stupid — lesson learned. But water over dam; no benefit accrues from brooding over mistakes (besides, sackcloth itchy; ashes hard to shampoo from hair). On notice now — van expendable; shall keep fact in mind.

(But perhaps, in exercise of reasonable foresight, new policy implementation unnecessary. Ever. Because not truly fond of idea — not through fuzzy sentimentality, irrational attachment to inert mechanism; of course; practical considerations only: supremely capable on/off-road vehicle; quirks, limitations of which now second nature. Also capacious: lots of gear aboard, stowed neatly; everything in its place, readily at hand. Further, after pedal-lift installation, shift-lever extension, seat relocation, fits me — not insignificant factor from four-foot-ten-inch perspective. Besides, finally have galley in shape: cabinets, drawers organized; stove, oven properly broken in. Hate to go through that again.)

So van expendable, true. Fact now in mind. But “expendable” not synonymous with “consumable”: that fact in mind, too. Next question, please.

Which (from serious historian, student) must be: Did you find anyone, anything, in Baltimore?

Answer: Of course not. Yet — just got here. (Apart from happy discovery that, proximity to Washington notwithstanding, ambient radiation still reads within normal limits.)

Harpers not home; no surprise there. House displays usual signs (which have come to know, hate) of methodical move-out seen elsewhere. No clues immediately apparent; fine-tooth search must await morrow — been long day.

But first, another wallow in civilized decadence. Power out along much of East Coast, but Harpers’ house totally solar powered, plus has own deep well — utterly independent of local utilities. Flip switch, electricity restored. Water standing in system already hot from automatic convective functioning of calorie collector on roof; with electricity working again, pump stands ready to replenish water as used. In brief: Hot shower time again!

Which is practically first thing did upon investigating house. Supper preparation, consumption next; only then turned to present journal update. (Sorry, Posterity; itchy, smelly skin and empty belly come first.)

And delays aside, now appears have done duty: Noteworthy observations, activities memorialized. Time for evening’s revels to peak:

Three beds to choose from. Not difficult decision, though: King-size unsuitable (truly, have walked on marble floors with more resilience). Queen-size fitted with ten-inch foam mattress (into which unwary sleeper might sink beyond hope of rescue). Twin bed, however, is Just Right.

Good night, Posterity.

Goodness…! Hard to know where to begin. So much to relate, but must keep tight rein on impulses lest record become even less coherent than usual. Strictly, therefore, by chronology:

Arose well rested. Indulged in another long, hot shower. Prepared breakfast with usual hilarious difficulty; fending off, with effort, assistance intensively volunteered by jovially ravenous sibling (surely most trying aspect of relationship: Seems the earlier the hour, more unbearably cheerful becomes).

Performed usual half-hour kata to settle breakfast, loosen up musculature.

Thereafter went through house. Thoroughly. Negative-result pattern confirmed suspicions previously formed: Deliberate, preplanned exodus; whether prior to H. sapiens’ demise or immediately thereafter, unknown, immaterial. Lingering question still where.

Finished house examination; time to extend sweep to offices, general work environs. Packed, adjourned to van. Dug address list from Tarzan File, placed on dash next to wheel. Cleaned, refilled Terry’s water, seed dishes -

Of course bringing twin: Wouldn’t dream of leaving birdbrained innocent alone, unprotected. Besides, what if failed to return? Ever. Food, water soon run out. Consequences inevitable; details (how end arrives, how long takes) simply don’t bear thinking about! Yes, retarded brother’s constant companionship high in nuisance value (often downright maddening), but necessary to peace of mind.

Found city map at nearby drugstore, oriented self, located destination; set forth in general direction of Hopkins campus; specifically, doctors’ office park adjacent to teaching hospital.

Never got there.

Everything happened at once, in slow motion: One moment was driving west (had overshot, going first to Harpers’ home) down medium-wide downtown arterial (four lanes, no parking; high-rise buildings jutting from sidewalk edges to form concrete canyon), slowing to turn north at next corner. Next moment, just as moved wheel to begin turn, caught glimpse (same instant heard engine’s bellow, tires’ shrieking) of gold-trimmed, shiny black blur already entering intersection from north, turning east: Full-race Trans Am (wide wheels, tires; unmuffled chrome headers; heaven knows what else) flailing into corner almost sideways, on radius which, requiring entire width of both streets, terminated somewhere between own vehicle’s headlights.

No time for cleverness — instinctively stamped on brakes, threw hand up to brace Terry, stiffened other arm on steering wheel to brace me, gritted teeth, awaited outcome.

Trans Am driver did react, somehow: Sensed, rather than saw, front wheels twitch outward; heard engine’s thunder falter, almost gasp, then redouble. Hurtling vehicle’s sideways approach around corner abruptly changed radius, momentarily flattening curve, missing van’s left front corner by merest fraction of flinch.

Progress thereafter less clear: Observation limited to what could make out in mirrors.

Trans Am apparently completed slide around corner (and own frail self) by slapping right rear wheel into curb, with front wheels still pointed sharply to right. Sliced immediately across sidewalk into storefront.

Vehicle, building, both erupted in shower of fragments, dust, sudden plume of flame. Remnant of car ricocheted from impact cloud, spinning like dervish, shedding parts en route, to recross street. Smote that building tail first with horrendous thump, triggering yet another debris explosion, considerably more flame; from which emerged still spinning, appreciably smaller, still shedding parts, now gushing fire in earnest; recrossing street to crash again. And still again. And — oh, never mind.

Would be nice to report own reaction at this point cool, efficient, intelligent. Can’t. Wasn’t. Intellect momentarily shut down completely. Forgot existence of large, fully charged CO 2extinguisher; forgot about Gel-Coat (flame-retardant, wet-chemical-soaked blanket with whose protection could have bathed in burning gasoline for five minutes without discomfort); forgot about Hurst gasoline-engine-hydraulic rescue equipment (capable of ripping open any door, shearing off roof posts, unpeeling vehicle crumpled like ball of foil to extract occupants); crowbar, sledge — all languishing in lockers in rear of van. Even forgot to set brake, shift transmission to neutral before taking action. (Didn’t matter; had killed engine again in heat of moment.)

Only knew had finally found somebody — possibly very last other soul on Earth — and might be dying before own disbelieving eyes.

Sprang from driver’s seat while accident still unwinding (seemed to take forever). Landed in dead run. Forced to hurdle several gasoline trails left burning as careening wreckage crossed, recrossed street between impacts.

Overtook accident at Trans Am’s ultimate resting place, half-buried in display window some hundred yards beyond van. Arrived as building-material cascade tapered off; rubble piling high on roof, hood, trunk, littering nearby pavement.