Steven Konkoly - The Perseid Collapse

“She fought off three guys trying to steal her car,” he replied quietly.

“Keep the knife in your front pocket, out of sight, and keep sipping water. That CamelBak should be empty by the time we reach the high school,” he announced, then whispered the rest of what the woman had told him about the attack into Kate’s ear.

Kate’s expression instantly sharpened to an angry grimace.

“I really wish that Coastie hadn’t tossed my pistol,” he said.

“We’ll be fine,” she said, snapping open the three-inch serrated blade to examine his choice for their bug-out packs. “Just fine.” She closed the knife and put it into her front cargo pocket.

EVENT +08:15

Scarborough, Maine

Kate was starting to have irrational thoughts about ditching her backpack. They were less than a half mile from their neighborhood, and all she could think about was throwing the tan contraption into the bushes and coming back to get it later. The pack’s weight had nothing to do with the problem. She was in excellent physical condition and could hike for hours with one of the equally sized internal-frame backpacks they purchased from Eastern Mountain Sports. The pack Alex had chosen for the family bug-out bag simply sucked for walking long distances.

Unless you had grown accustomed to working with disgustingly uncomfortable gear, like most marines, the “three-day assault pack” was a killer. It lacked any kind of rigid frame, rendering proper weight distribution nearly impossible, which had the unfortunate effect of rubbing her shoulders raw. Mercifully, she had consumed most of her water by this point, which, according to Alex, had reduced the pack’s weight by more than ten pounds. Small consolation.

Of course, by the time she had significantly reduced the water weight, the damage to her shoulders and psyche had been done. She wanted to lay into him for defaulting to military equipment, but didn’t see any purpose to picking a fight. The kids weren’t complaining, and Alex wouldn’t admit the pack was uncomfortable if his shoulders were visibly bleeding. She didn’t want to be the only one to bitch about their predicament. They were almost home, where she could toss the pack in the house and lay on the floor for as long as she wanted. If they still had a house.

The first signs of tsunami damage appeared a few blocks from the Wainright athletic fields. The pattern of damage made sense based on what they had observed during their trek along Highland Avenue, which had ascended gradually from the center of South Portland near the middle school. Roughly a mile from the police roadblock, standing on the sidewalk overlooking South Portland High School’s football field, they could see the green of Portland’s Western Promenade, which towered above Portland’s inner harbor. They looked about even with Portland’s high ground, and Alex had guessed that they were at least a hundred feet above sea level.

She trusted his judgment when it came to navigation. Alex had an uncanny sense of direction and an infallible ability to get them to wherever they needed to go, often without the help of maps or GPS. After nearly twenty years of marriage, she was a believer. The man was never lost and could read terrain like the back of his hand.

Even the kids started to believe when another mapping prediction came true a half mile past the high school, near Fickett Street. Highland Avenue peaked and began a shallow descent into the neighborhoods along the South Portland/Scarborough border. Alex estimated that their house sat somewhere between thirty to forty feet above sea level. A fact he leveraged when everyone began to feel the effects of the two-mile uphill hike on their quads. Incredibly, none of them recalled Highland Avenue descending into Scarborough, but Alex insisted that they were very likely approaching the downhill portion of their trip. True to his word, the street leveled off and began to slope downward, ever so slightly. The difference was barely noticeable on their bodies, but mentally, it rejuvenated them. The temperature had climbed well into the high eighties by that point, and any factor working in their favor was entirely welcome.

When the mud and debris appeared on the streets and in the yards, they figured they had reached the bottom of the hill. Aside from the ever-present layer of muddy silt, it hadn’t looked nearly as bad as she had expected. Most of the wooden fences had been knocked down, but the high water mark hadn’t reached the first-floor windows. People they encountered along the road reported basement flooding as their worst damage from the tsunami, which had rolled through without any warning at around six in the morning. Roadside watersheds and ditches overflowed with dirty, foamy water, giving a good indication that the area’s natural water runoff system had been completely overwhelmed. No surprise there, along with the observation that all of the sewer grates visible from Highland gushed muddy water.

Alex had found this to be more alarming than the surface damage. With their sump pump out of commission due to the power outage and the town sewer system flooded past maximum capacity, the water in their basement wouldn’t drain. They still kept most of their supplies and equipment in the basement. As they continued along Highland Avenue, closing the distance to the shoreline, the high-water mark on the trees flanking the road rose significantly, along with the layer of mud covering the road and ground.

At first the sludge had been a minor inconvenience, preventing them from simply shuffling along the sidewalk and forcing them to step more deliberately to avoid filling their shoes with the slimy concoction of sand, dirt and sea foam. A few blocks into the tsunami zone, they quickly sank to their ankles, removing dry feet from the very short list of remaining comforts. Upon exiting the neighborhood and reaching the stretch of Highland Avenue flanked by the forest preserve, the mud had reached the middle of Kate’s shins, turning the hike into a nightmare.

With the midday sun beating down on her, the past three-quarters of a mile had been difficult physically and mentally. The stagnant sheet of thickening muck had grown deeper, sometimes reaching their knees. The closer they got to their neighborhood, the slower they moved toward their goal of getting to Ryan. Every mud-encrusted, strained footstep stood between Kate and her son.

Standing at the corner of Harrison Road and Highland Avenue, she was thankful to see that all of the houses in the Harrison Hill area appeared intact. With this positive thought in mind, she mentally shelved her grudge against the backpack and trudged forward through the knee-high slop toward their house a few blocks away.

Alex watched Kate stop and exhale at the intersection. She stepped off in the direction of their neighborhood, without bothering to glance at the lifeless fire station on the opposite side of the street. He knew what was bothering her, aside from the fact that their son was alone and over a hundred miles away in a heavily populated urban center. She was singly focused on throwing her backpack to the ground on their front steps. He should have known better, especially since he’d humped similar packs for hundreds of miles after 9/11. The assault pack had taken a toll on him as well. The pack he’d chosen had a reputation for extreme discomfort, which he had conveniently forgotten until heaving the contraption on his back at the Coast Guard station.

His shoulders had started to chafe several minutes into the hike, when his sweat-soaked cotton T-shirt ceased to provide any kind of useful barrier between his skin and the thick nylon shoulder straps. Three and a half hours later, he wouldn’t be surprised to see bone protruding from his shoulders, but he didn’t dare show the first sign of wincing or whining. Kate hadn’t complained at all, despite the fact that she looked utterly miserable. For her first “forced” road march, she’d exceeded all expectations, leaving Alex humbled. Kate was living proof that the Department of Defense’s decision to lift the Combat Exclusion Rules had been long overdue.