by Bobby Akart
“Roughly twenty-three miles from the riverfront. You and I proved we can walk that if we have to.”
“My feet will divorce me,” quipped Tony in an attempt to add some levity to the situation. Both men were still wearing their suit pants and pressed shirts although they were untucked. Their clothing was smeared with blood, and their pants were torn. However, it was their shoes that provided them the most consternation. Their Johnston & Murphy wingtips weren’t designed for twenty-mile walks. Both guys complained of blood blisters and heel pain.
Jack looked toward the couple, who were now standing, a sign they were ready to get going. “Okay. I’ll be the bad guy when the time comes. Let’s get them started. However, when they ask to stop again, we need to let them go. It’s not just the frequent breaks. It’s the slow pace.”
Tony grimaced and nodded. “I know. I know. Hell, we would’ve been across already.”
With the tough decision made, the guys joined the elderly couple and escorted them onto the railroad tracks. Through the steel mesh, they saw hundreds of people streaming along the pathway. Most didn’t look in their direction, opting instead to shuffle along behind the person in front of them and staring at their feet.
As predicted, they’d barely walked ten minutes at a snail’s pace when the old couple asked to take another break. The guys stopped with them and complimented them on their perseverance.
But … There was always a but.
But, Jack explained, they had to hurry home to their families, so they wished them well. The couple, while sad, understood and wished them good luck as well. The elderly woman began to shed a few tears, an emotional moment Jack noticed and fortunately Tony didn’t. If he’d seen her cry, then he’d have insisted on continuing the escort.
As it turned out, the nearly forty minutes they spent as Good Samaritans might’ve cost them their lives.
Chapter Forty
Sunday, December 23
Near Lake Cormorant, Mississippi
“You know, sometimes there are things a man don’t tell his wife ’cause he don’t want her to worry,” said Trooper Willie Angel as he drove through a throng of people milling about in Tunica Resorts, Mississippi. The small town of less than two thousand, formerly known as Robinsonville, had become a regional destination for gamblers. Six casinos operated along the Mississippi River, making it the second largest casino destination east of the Mississippi, behind Atlantic City.
“Like what?” asked Beth, who was genuinely interested in what he had to say. She chided Tony often for not confiding in her or revealing his feelings to her. She never knew her father, who’d left with her mother for California soon after she was born. Her grandfather had passed before she was old enough to have such weighty conversations.
“Well, you know. Sometimes money is tight and you love your missus, so you don’t want her to feel like she can’t buy something or another. Then we might be stressed at work, but we don’t wanna burden ’em with our problems. There’s medical issues …” His voice trailed off.
Beth sensed something was troubling Willie. This was her chance to repay him for saving her and Anthony, who had grown comfortable in the back seat of the patrol car.
Carla had allowed him to play with some of her grandchildren’s large LEGO blocks known as DUPLO bricks. They were larger than the LEGOs and weren’t a choke hazard. With her grandchildren much older, she gave Anthony a mesh sack of pieces to make the Disney Toy Story Train along with the Woody and Buzz Lightyear figurines. Anthony was fascinated by the set and would be occupied for the two-hour drive to Cordova.
“Are you sick, Willie?” she asked.
He sighed before he responded. He wiggled his fingers on the steering wheel as he spoke. “I’ve got the usual stuff old men get. High blood pressure. Diabetes. Cholesterol. You know. The doc throws pills at me for all of those things, and I keep on livin’.”
“Right.” Beth stretched the word out slightly. “Is there more? I mean, you don’t have to tell me.”
Willie grimaced. “Well, to be honest, I wouldn’t have brought it up, but I thought I’d ask your advice. I can’t talk to my daughters about this ’cause Lord knows they’d be shuffling me off to this hospital or that. Or they’d want us to move in with them. Or, worst yet, one of them would want to move home. That ain’t gonna happen.”
Beth took a deep breath and blurted it out. The C-word. “Cancer?”
Willie shook his head. “Oh, no. Thank the good Lord. Not that bad, but close. I’ve got sickle cell disease.”
“Oh,” said Beth. “I’m sorry to say, although I’ve heard of it, I don’t really know what it means.”
“There’s no real reason you should. My doc called it the black folk’s curse. It’s a genetic thing. Some people get it worse than others. My hands and feet started swelling all the time, and I couldn’t pinpoint why. My eyes started getting blurry, especially at night. I’ve had to keep this on the down low from my supervisor, too. I was afraid they’d force me into early retirement.”
Beth felt a cramp coming on in her lower abdomen near her uterus. At her last ob-gyn appointment, she was reminded that Braxton-Hicks contractions might start soon. She was just now transitioning from her second to her third trimester. Anthony had come early, and she expected this baby would too.
“Can they treat it?”
Willie quickly replied, “They’ve tried me on a couple of different meds. The problem is that I’ve become anemic. I started noticing my eyes turning yellow. You know, jaundice. And then it became more and more difficult to take a really deep breath. Anyway, just this last week, I got my blood results back, and they tell me I’m anemic.”
Beth asked the next logical question. It was direct and personal, but she truly wanted to give Willie an outlet to unload his burden. “Um, it’s not deadly, is it?”
“They tell me nothing can be said with certainty. The doc was honest with me and said my life expectancy just got reduced by a bunch. I’m sixty-three, Beth. I may only live to seventy. That sounds like a lot of years. Seven. But when you start looking at it like your counting down to the end, it’s kind of depressing.”
Beth glanced around the highway. The standing water hadn’t receded despite a full day, and now morning, of sunshine. Most flooding started to disappear after the rain stopped, and the sun helped the evaporation process. She shifted in the seat and turned to Willie.
“I gather you haven’t told Carla any of this.”
“That’s right.”
Beth furrowed her brow. “Have you avoided the subject because you don’t want to tell her you have the disease or because you don’t want to tell her about the doctor’s stupid expiration date he stamped on your forehead?”
Willie chuckled. “Honestly, as you put it, the expiration date bothered me the most.”
“Willie, please excuse me for saying this, but that was the wrong thing to lay on you. None of us have an expiration date. Listen, I know nothing about sickle cell, but I do know all of our bodies are different. Minds, too. You can manage this with medication. Maybe proper diet with Carla’s help. And you two love each other. A lot. I can tell. You’ll help each other find the will to soldier through.”
Willie smiled and nodded. “Are you sayin’ to tell her about the disease but not about the life-expectancy thing?”
“Yes, absolutely. Willie, you wouldn’t be lying because that doctor may be able to read a blood test, but he isn’t God. Only God will decide when it’s your time.”
Willie burst out laughing and then shed a few tears. “Miss Beth, are you sure your last name ain’t Angel?”
She smiled and added to the pool of tears in the front seat of the Mississippi Highway Patrol car. “I’m a long way from being an angel, but I’m pretty sure God would agree with me.”
They shared a laugh as Willie began to slow the car as he approached an upcoming intersection. Suddenly, the blue flames returned. Any place the ground protruded through the floodwaters, blue flames with tiny
orbs circulating around them shot skyward.
The ground began to shake, making it difficult for Willie to hold the steering wheel. A low rumbling sound filled the air, and soon it began to get louder.
A flock of wood ducks was disturbed toward their left. They suddenly raced low along the landscape and across the road directly in front of them. Instinctively, Willie slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt, sending Beth forward against her seatbelt. The jolting stop then slammed her backwards against the seat. Anthony was tossed about in the back seat and started to cry.
Beth yelled in pain. She reached forward to brace herself on the dashboard.
Willie was angry with himself. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!”
He pulled across the divided highway into a Shell station that had been looted since the power went out. He jumped out of the car and ran around to the passenger side to check on Beth. He flung open the door, and she sat there, perfectly still, eyes wide, but staring at the pool of fluid that had accumulated in her seat and on the floor mats.
“I think my water just broke.”
Chapter Forty-One
Sunday, December 23
USGS
Golden, Colorado
Just after midnight, nearly thirty-six hours after the earthquake struck the New Madrid Seismic Zone, Dr. Lansing felt it was calm enough to go home and sleep. A portion of the staff manned the helm while she recovered from the frenetic pace she’d maintained for a couple of days. Fortunately, there had only been minor aftershocks recorded. However, it appeared the president had delayed sending in the bulk of his recovery resources based upon her warning that multiple earthquakes were possible, especially in light of historic precedent.
By the time she returned late that Sunday morning, the media was criticizing the administration for its tepid response to the disaster. Succumbing to the pressure, the president directed Homeland Security and FEMA to begin the relief effort in earnest. The National Guard was activated in all fifty states and then redeployed to the region. Firefighters drove toward the NMSZ to assist. America’s brave first responders did what they were wired to do—run to danger, not from it.
Dr. Lansing wanted to be wrong. She didn’t want to go down in history known as the prophetess of doom. She wanted to provide accurate models based upon scientific fact. However, she simply could not disregard the events of 1811 and 1812. History repeats. It might not look exactly the same twice. But it still repeats.
The NEIC had help from around the world. Other geological agencies from developed nations were now sending data into the Golden, Colorado, facility. The global network of seismometers supplemented regional seismic networks like those operated within the NMSZ. All of these monitoring agencies exchanged information, and many brilliant minds were analyzing the data to provide Dr. Lansing various points of view.
The geophysicists who worked under Dr. Lansing were very capable, but none of them were so arrogant to believe that second opinions regarding their patient, Mother Earth, should be disregarded.
Oliver followed Dr. Lansing into her office with a banana and a bottle of water. He gently set them on her desk and studied his boss’s demeanor. He frowned as he sensed she appeared defeated.
“Okay, mum. After I finish what I have to say, I will gladly tender my resignation and move back to England if you request. I would be remiss if I didn’t speak my mind.”
Dr. Lansing managed a smile and gestured for her number one to sit across the desk from her. She took a drink of water and set the banana by her phone.
“You’ve spoken your mind before, Oliver, and you’re still here.”
“Yes, mum. I appreciate your patience with me in that regard.”
“And I will continue to have patience. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
He set a stack of emails from all over the world on her desk. They’d been translated and organized from the most influential, highly respected geophysicists to the lesser known but still worthy of considering their opinion.
“It’s a who’s who, mum. I’ve read them all. There’s no need for you to do so.”
She laughed and reached for her banana. “I realize they don’t know what I said to the president yesterday or what my official position is on the potential for aftershocks, etcetera. That said, they are smart enough to see our country’s actions, or inaction, regarding the recovery effort. They know I’m the one who advised the president. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know I’ve rung the clarion bell warning the president away from sending in significant resources at this time.”
Oliver raised his chin, and his lower lip protruded outward. He lent the appearance of a much thinner version of Sir Winston Churchill.
“Here is the consensus, mum. The reoccurrence of the huge earthquakes over the last four thousand years culminating with the 1800s sequence leads to a logical conclusion. The 1811–1812 quakes were nothing more than a continuation of a consistent pattern along this ancient plate boundary. Each time, the strain has been relieved and the fault is vitiated. The seismic event of Friday was a one-off, freak occurrence that will calm the region for another few hundred years, if not longer due to its intensity.”
“One and done,” she mumbled.
“Yes, mum.”
She stood and walked around her desk toward the wall-mounted relief map. Oliver spun in his chair to follow her.
“Maybe they’re right,” she began. She pointed toward Oklahoma. “It wouldn’t be the first fault in the Central U.S. to go on an extended hiatus. Consider the Meers fault. It’s been dormant for twelve hundred years. Prior to that, it produced M7s with regularity.”
“Mum, we know that intraplate faults like New Madrid turn on and off. Eventually, it doesn’t have the energy to turn back on. Think of the quake storm of 2016. Your predecessor raised the threat level for the NMSZ, and nothing happened. Years later, many, including yourself, opined that these were simply aftershocks of the 1811 event. Just because an M4 rears its head in the NMSZ doesn’t mean the big one is coming soon.”
“I know, Oliver. I know this, too. However, it’s also true these intraplate quakes may disappear in one fault zone and pop up where no one’s expecting. The epicenter for this quake was in Arnold, well to the north of New Madrid. There was significant pre-quake activity in the Memphis area. It fits the pattern we’ve seen on other continents where the epicenters hop all around a fault.”
“Like the unmapped faults in China?” Oliver asked.
“Yes, exactly like that,” she replied. “Here’s the thing. It’s science, but it’s not an exact science. We learn from seismic events and then adjust our models accordingly. In the case of New Madrid, we identified a mid-continent fault, and then you get a large quake outside the defined norm. All you can ask is for Pete’s sake, there’s a fault running that way, too?”
Oliver laughed. “It’s like playing a giant game of whack-a-mole. If the New Madrid fault has shifted, or even expanded, we truly don’t know where to monitor next.”
“Exactly. If we put all of our resources into the same location, it’s like having an entire police department staking out the last convenience store that was robbed. Who’s gonna be watching the other 7-Elevens?”
“I get it,” Oliver responded.
She stared at the relief map. “We don’t know for certain what’s gonna happen next. We analyze the data. We apply history. We prepare or react accordingly.”
She pointed to a plaque on the wall given to her by her grandfather when she received her doctorate. It was a quote written by Charles Darwin as he revealed his own primal unease after experiencing the devastating earthquake in Concepcion, Chile, in 1835.
A bad earthquake at once destroys our oldest associations: the earth, the very emblem of solidity, has moved beneath our feet like a thin crust over a fluid—one second of time has created in the mind a strange idea of insecurity, which hours of reflection would not have produced.
A young woman burst into the room without knocking. “D
r. Lansing, come quick! You need to see this!”
Chapter Forty-Two
Sunday, December 23
Atwood Residence
Cordova, Tennessee
Jill put on her best face as she cooked the last of the scrambled eggs in a cast-iron skillet together with some Tennessee Pride sausage. Emily poured each of them a glass of milk that was on the verge of being spoiled. For the most part, it might appear to be any other Sunday morning before the family went to church. However, the elephant in the room threatened to sit at the table at any moment, demanding attention.
All of them had hoped, or expected, that Jack would’ve returned from St. Louis by now. It had been forty hours since the earthquake struck Memphis. The radio broadcasts from WLAC-AM in Nashville painted a bleak picture. Highway bridges up and down the Mississippi River had collapsed. From as far south as Natchez, Mississippi, all the way to the Upper Mississippi River area near Hannibal, Missouri, bridges of all types had been destroyed or rendered too dangerous to cross with vehicles.
The reporting wasn’t specific as to whether there was National Guard assistance in crossing the river or if any of the railroad crossings stood intact. It was partly due to the inability to get information that Jill decided to walk through the neighborhood after breakfast to see what other people knew and to enlist help in locating the families of the children who survived the disaster at the Halloran theater.
“Mom, can I go check on Britney and her family?”
Jill had just taken a bite. She swallowed her food and responded, “Um, I don’t know, Tate. I might be gone for an hour or so. Maybe you should stay here with Emily? Your dad might return, and you wouldn’t wanna miss him.”
Tate frowned. “Mom, I won’t be long, I promise. I’ll cut through the woods along the lake. I’ll even see if her family has a portable radio with batteries we can borrow. Her dad is into that ham radio stuff.”
