The Katelyn Ann responded to the change in rudder angle, and he watched the bow start to swing left, pointing the boat into safe water beyond the visible rock barrier. Afraid to spin the rudder any further and lose control, Alex watched helplessly as the turn stalled, and the boat drifted back in the direction of the tsunami. Alex straightened the rudder and let the water carry them, building up speed for the next turn. The short period of time the boat had spent drifting to port had made a difference, and they were lined up a little further south along the island.
He waited a few seconds and eased the wheel a quarter of a turn more than before. He felt the rudder tugging at the helm, trying to wrench it out of his grip. He wrapped his right arm through the thick metal spokes and piled his body against the wheel, knowing that his bones were no match against the force of the current pushing against the rudder. He felt the metal bar press tightly against his right tricep, just above the elbow, creating a pressure that caused him to moan. He just needed a few more seconds before the pain stopped.
The boat eased to port, fighting against the continuous volume of water pouring over Jewell Island into the pass. The pressure on the wheel eased when the boat stopped turning, having reached the limit of its rudder-induced maneuver against the current. He untangled his throbbing arm from the wheel and stared at the approaching shore for a moment.
“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” he hissed. The Katelyn Ann faced the rocks, unable to break free from the tsunami’s grasp.
He centered the rudder, careful to hold the wheel tight as the boat careened toward the ocean-sprayed ledge barricade seemingly obsessed with claiming the boat as a victim.
“One, two—move you son of a bitch!” he said, yanking the wheel left and sliding his arm between the spokes.
The thirty-eight-foot sailboat executed another strong turn to port, causing him to bite his lower lip as the metal spoke exerted a nearly unendurable pressure against his arm and shoulder. He growled at the wheel, biting his lip as it dug into his humerus, grinding muscle against bone. The pressure eased, and he struggled to his feet. The bow was pointed into safe water, and the visible end of the island drifted rapidly to starboard, less than one hundred feet away. He still wasn’t convinced that they would clear the island. Alex had always been good with angles, especially at sea. He did the math, comparing the tsunami direction with their position and shook his head.
“Kate! Get everyone on the starboard side! Heads down! I don’t know if we’re going to make it!”
He heard a flurry of activity below, accompanied by crying he hadn’t noticed during their violent journey out of the cove. He wished they had a more powerful engine. Sailboats were so damn underpowered for their size. A forty-horsepower engine in a sixteen-thousand-pound, thirty-eight-foot-long vessel. Utterly ridiculous. At the last possible moment, Alex put the engine in neutral to keep the propeller from fouling, and straightened the rudder with his left hand. The bow cleared the leading edge of the rocks with thirty feet to go, still turning with the current.
“Brace for impact!” he screamed.
He squeezed the wheel as the ledge disappeared beneath the starboard rail next to him. The massive jolt that would shipwreck them on Cliff Island never came.
“That’s right! You don’t fuck with the Katelyn Ann!” he screamed at the jagged obstacle, putting her back into gear and increasing the throttle to three-quarters.
He turned the rudder to port and eased the boat away from the southern shore, with plenty of safe water to maneuver ahead of him. The tsunami’s energy had faded quickly, allowing him to steer further port without being pushed back. A mile away, off the starboard bow, he watched the leading edge of the tsunami strike the lowlying, western half of Cliff Island, sending geysers of foamy seawater fifty feet into the air. The water swallowed the inhabited stretch of the island whole, sweeping away homes and dropping wooden utility poles. Everything disappeared. Gone.
“What’s going on!” yelled Kate.
“We made it. You have to see this.”
Kate emerged hesitantly, scanning around to gain her bearings. Her gaze once again settled on Alex.
“What happened to you?” she said, rushing over to help him.
“I decided to punch myself in the mouth for agreeing to buy a sailboat,” he said.
“It was your idea,” she said, reaching out to touch his lip.
“How are the kids?”
“Shaken up. Emily has a few bumps and bruises. I think we got lucky.”
“You have no idea,” he said, nodding behind the boat at the rocks.
Kate stared aft for a few moments, no doubt examining the boat’s wake through the water.
“You almost crashed us,” she remarked.
For the briefest moment, he thought she might be serious. He could tell she was trying desperately to suppress a grin, which in Alex’s mind saved her from being pushed overboard. Without warning, she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed, causing him to wince. She released the hug immediately.
“What happened?”
“I think my arm is broken. I used it to keep the wheel from turning with the wave. No lectures, please.”
She looked at Cliff Island and turned to him. “I’ll give you a pass this time. Where’s the dinghy?”
Alex scanned the water behind them, quickly turning his attention back to the open water ahead of the boat.
“Shit. I didn’t notice it was missing. I was a little preoccupied.”
Kate reached over the stern safety rail and pulled on the orange line tied to the stern cleat. The line flopped onto the swim deck, frayed at the end.
“I hope the pier is still intact back at the club,” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“I have a feeling we’re in for a little swim,” Alex said. “Maybe sooner than later. Our stern hit those rocks. We need to check for leaks.”
“I’ll inspect the aft berth for damage. We still have a foot of standing water in the cabin. The bilge pump light is on, so I assume it’s working,” she said and waded through the knee-level water in the cockpit.
Alex leaned back and examined the stern. He saw a steady stream of water pump from the hull into the bay. “I see water coming out of the discharge. If we don’t have any serious leaks, the cabin should be dry in a few minutes.”
He didn’t know the specific output capacity of his bilge pump, but based on talk around the club, he figured the boat had been equipped with a pump that could remove up to twelve hundred gallons per hour. A sizeable hull breach could easily overtake that capacity. All they needed to do was keep the boat afloat for another ninety minutes. They had buckets and a few handheld pumps if the situation became dire. Kate reached the hatchway and turned her head to face him.
“Nobody fucks with the Katelyn Ann?” she said.
“Nobody,” he said to the boat’s namesake.
Chapter 9
EVENT +01:10 Hours
The Walker Residence
Scarborough, Maine
Ed Walker poured a cup of freshly brewed coffee and turned his head to look at the clock on the microwave, confirming the same thought he’d expressed minutes earlier, when he started to pull the toaster out of the cabinet next to the stove.
I’m an idiot.
A sudden, massive blast of wind had knocked out the power, along with most of the neighborhood’s south-facing windows, roughly an hour ago. This hadn’t stopped him from repeatedly flipping light switches and trying to activate every electronic device in the house.
His wife, Samantha, had salvaged their two-burner propane camping stove and aluminum coffee set from the garage after they had finished cleaning up the glass. The microburst had shattered every backyard-facing window in their house. They spent at least thirty minutes picking up the visible pieces, relying on flashlights and the rising sun to identify the most noticeable shards. Without the use of their central vacuum system, they would have to wear shoes.
They still had no idea what had happened. The sky
was clear, except for the odd reddish glow that had persisted over the southwestern horizon for twenty minutes. Sarah Quinn insisted that she and her husband had seen a brilliant flash while stretching out on the deck for their daily run. By the time they had walked around the house to investigate, the glow had vanished. She thought it had come from the south, but her husband, George, contended that the light had shone from the east. Ed more or less thought they were full of shit. Who knew? He did know that Sarah and George had gotten lucky. Whatever they saw had delayed the start of their run, keeping them sheltered behind their house when the gust hit.
Ed lifted the mug and took a sip of hot coffee, his eyes spotting something shiny among the apples piled into a bowl on the table. They would have to be really careful around the house. He walked to the sliding patio door, noting its absence. The screen door had been severely warped by the blast, but it remained intact like most of the screens in the house. At least they would be spared the mosquitos. A cool breeze poured through the opening, providing a brief respite from the miserable day that lay ahead. Samantha walked into the kitchen from the mudroom.
“No cell phone signal yet. I’m worried about Chloe. The same thing might have hit Boston,” she said.
“This was some kind of microburst. They’re usually very localized. Probably knocked out power to the cell towers,” said Ed.
“I thought the towers had their own backup generators?”
“Most of them should,” he admitted. “If we can’t reach her by eight, we’ll leave the kids with Charlie and head to Boston. We can bring her back if there’s a problem down there.”
Ed had a sinking feeling that there was more to the morning’s power outage than strange weather. He’d retrieved their emergency radio from a box of camping supplies in the garage and taken it out on the deck, hoping to gain some basic information regarding the wind gust. Instead of the choppy, digital NOAA broadcast, he heard static. He anxiously cycled through the AM and FM bands, still unable to located a signal. Ed checked and rechecked the radio, cranking the hand-power generator for at least a minute before trying again. The radio’s LED burned brilliantly green throughout the process, telling him what he already suspected. The radio wasn’t the problem.
A sharp knock at the front door caused him to jump, spilling coffee on his hand.
“Damn it. Who the hell…?” he mumbled, setting the mug on the table.
He opened the door to find Charlie Thornton panting on his stoop. Charlie glanced over his shoulder twice, looking at the sky.
“They EMP’d our asses. Both of my cars are dead, and nothing works in my house. We’re sitting ducks,” said Charlie.
“Who EMP’d us?”
“The Chinese! Who else? They’ll probably start landing paratroopers within the hour, like Red Dawn!”
Ed regarded his neighbor for a moment, hesitating to invite him inside. Charlie stood there barefoot, dressed in faded jeans and an oversized white Red Sox T-shirt. He clung nervously to a black, AR-style rifle fitted with some kind of scope. Ed wasn’t keen on letting him inside, especially given the fact that Charlie had chosen a rifle over shoes.
“You gonna let me in or what? It won’t be long before we’re under direct attack,” he said, looking past Ed. “My guess is we’ll be hit by drones first.”
“Is the safety engaged on that thing?” Ed asked.
“Do I look like some kind of idiot?”
Ed glanced down at his bare feet and gave him a pained look.
“The safety’s on, for shit’s sake,” grunted Charlie.
Ed let Charlie in, closed the door and followed him to the kitchen.
“What did you mean about the cars?” he asked.
“Oh hey, Samantha,” Charlie said. “Sorry to barge in on you like this. Damn. Still glass everywhere,” he said, lifting a small piece off the kitchen island.
“The cars, Charlie?” Ed prompted.
“Oh yeah. Both of them are dead. The batteries turn over, but the engine won’t start. EMP fried the electronics. Have you tried yo—”
“What EMP?” interrupted Samantha.
“There’s no EMP, honey. I’m sure the cars are fine,” Ed said.
“You need to check them now,” Charlie insisted.
“I’m not running out there to—”
Charlie grabbed Ed’s T-shirt, pulling him toward the garage, but something caught his attention through the kitchen window.
“What the hell is that?” he said, releasing Ed’s shirt to run to the screen door.
Ed heard the problem a few seconds before he saw it. A thunderous crescendo of sharp cracks approached, violently shaking the tops of the largest trees visible over the row of houses directly behind them. At first he thought it was another wind burst, but the loud snaps sounded more like entire trees falling. The burst of wind that had knocked out their windows was powerful, but it had left little more than leaves and branches strewn across the yard. This was different. Something slower and more deliberate.
Before he fully digested the thought, the top of a young maple tree shook and dropped out of sight beyond his backyard neighbor’s six-foot privacy fence. By the time the sound of the tree’s death reached Ed’s ears, he had figured out what they were up against.
“Get upstairs right now!” he barked at his wife, who reacted immediately, dashing past him for the center hallway.
Charlie glanced at him with a seriously puzzled look. Beyond Charlie, Ed saw the wooden privacy fence disappear, replaced by a solid wall of water. He didn’t stick around long enough to see Charlie’s reaction, but based on the steady stream of profanities catching up to him in the hallway, he figured that his friend had never moved faster.
Ed caught the banister and swung himself onto the stairway, making room for Charlie, who had closed the gap quicker than Ed had thought possible. Both of them paused to look over the railing just as the wall of water hammered the back of Ed’s house, snapping the railings on his deck and exploding through the screen door.
“Get out of there!” said Charlie, pulling him by the arm up the stairs.
A powerful torrent of muddy, debris-filled water slammed against the front door and quickly filled the foyer in a swirling eddy of dirty foam that lapped against the bottom stairs. The volume and speed of the water terrified Ed. In the next five seconds, he watched the water rise halfway up the door, showing no signs of slowing down. Two of his kitchen chairs rushed down the hallway half-submerged, piling up against the door momentarily before breaking loose and spilling through the foyer. The rest of his kitchen furniture had already streamed past in the initial onslaught. Somewhere below, he heard glass shatter over the incredible roar of the unending flood plowing through his house. His wife appeared from his son Daniel’s bedroom next to the stairs.
“You have to see this!” she said, with a look of sheer disbelief.
Ed hesitated, not wanting to take his eyes off the rising water below him. Half of the staircase was submerged.
“Dad! The whole neighborhood is flooded!” yelled Daniel from the same room.
Ed stood up, feeling slightly unsteady. “I’m sure Linda and the twins are fine,” he said to Charlie.
Charlie continued to stare at the floodwaters below. “They were still sleeping when I left,” he replied, nodding absently.
Ed joined his wife and two children at the rightmost, front window of his son’s room, nearly falling to his knees again. A surging mass of murky brown water covered the ground as far as he could see, carrying large branches, pieces of fencing, plastic garbage bins—anything that had crossed its path since striking the shoreline. The maple tree that normally blocked his view of the Sheppards’ house had been knocked into the street, providing his only direct view of the tsunami’s effects.
The Sheppards’ front door had been blown inward by the force of the wave. Water poured into the previously shattered front windows, likely creating the same effect he’d seen inside his own home. A quick, nearly inescapable flood. Water
continued to push up against the house, creating incredible pressure along fifty feet of solid frontage, but he didn’t detect any obvious signs of structural failure. He estimated the tsunami’s height to be between five and six feet.
Over a mile and a half inland, the initial wave had retained enough energy to topple young trees and pound open doors, but lacked the punch to collapse homes—so far. Water continued to rush through the neighborhood at an alarming rate, and Ed remembered reading that tsunami waves rarely traveled alone, and the first wave wasn’t always the largest.
“What do you think?” asked Samantha.
“I think we’re lucky we don’t live on the water. I can’t imagine what happened to Higgins Beach,” said Ed.
“Good God,” she mumbled.
“Is my house still there?” asked Charlie from the bedroom doorway.
“I can still see the roof. Take a look. It’s un-fucking-believable,” said Ed, backing away to make room at the window.
“Language,” Samantha warned.
“Sorry about that.”
“I don’t care,” said Daniel.
His daughter Abby, who had moved to another window, said, “Neither do I.”
“Well, I do,” insisted his wife.
“Sounds like you’ve been outvoted,” said Charlie, turning his attention to the scene beyond the window.
Samantha glared at Charlie. “This isn’t a democracy.”
“Neither is my house—holy shhhh—moley!” said Charlie. “The whole fu—farping neighborhood is fu—fragged to shhhhmeg. Damn it. Can’t they just plug their ears?”
Both of the teenagers laughed nervously.
“Can’t you complete a sentence without ten expletives?” said Samantha.
“Not under these circumstances,” he said, turning to face them.
“Look at that,” Ed said, pointing out of a window on the other side of the room. “Water is gushing out of the Fletchers’ windows.”
The Perseid Collapse (The Perseid Collapse Series 1) Page 6
