by Larry Niven
Nothing but static. She thought she heard a few words in the static. Someone shouting “Hammerfall!” over and over again, or was that in her head? No matter. There was no useful information.
Or, rather, there was, in that fact itself. This wasn’t a local disaster. The San Andreas had let go. Okay, but there were plenty of radio stations in southern California, and not all of them were near the fault. One or more should still be broadcasting, and Eileen knew of nothing an earthquake could do that would cause so much static.
Static. She went on through the back of the store. She found another body there, one of the warehousemen. She knew from the coveralls; there wouldn’t have been any point in looking for a face. Or for an upper torso, either, not under that… The door to the alley was jammed. She pulled and it moved, slightly, and she pulled again, bracing her cut knee against the wall and straining as hard as she could. It opened just far enough to let her squeeze through, and she went out and looked up at the sky.
Black clouds, roiling, and rain beginning to fall. Salt rain. Lightning flashed overhead.
The alley was blocked with rubble. Her car couldn’t possibly get through. She stopped and used the mirror from her purse, found a Kleenex and wiped away the dirty tear streaks and blood; not that it mattered a damn how she looked, but it made her feel better.
More rain fell. Darkness and lightning overhead, and salt rain. What did that mean? A big ocean strike? Tim had tried to tell her, but she hadn’t listened; it had so little to do with real life. She thought about Tim as she hurried down the alley, back toward Alameda because it was the only way she could go, and when she got to the street she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Tim was there, in the middle of a riot.
The earthquake rolled Tim Hamner under his car. He stayed there, waiting for the next shock, until he smelled gasoline. Then he came out, fast, crawling across the buckled pavement, staying on hands and knees.
He heard screams of terror and agony, and new sounds: concrete smashing on street pavement, concrete punching through metal car bodies, an endless tinkle of falling glass. And still he couldn’t believe. He got up, trembling.
People in white robes, blue uniforms, street clothes, lay sprawled on shattered street and sidewalks. Some moved. Some did not. Some were obviously dead, twisted or crushed. Cars had been overturned or smashed together or crushed by falling masonry. No building stood intact. The smell of gasoline was strong in his nostrils. He reached for a cigarette, jerked his hand violently away, then thoughtfully put his lighter in a back pocket, where he’d have to think before finding it.
A three-story building had lost its east face; the glass and brick had disintegrated, spilling outward across the parking lot and side street almost as far as where Tim Hamner had been lying. A chunk with part of a bay window in it had dropped through the passenger section of Hamner’s car. Gasoline ran from it in a spreading pool.
From somewhere he heard screams. He tried to shut them out. He couldn’t think of anything to do. Then the riot spilled around the corner.
It was led by three men in white robes. They were not screaming; they were panting, and saving all their breath for it. The screaming came from those behind them, and not from those in the lead.
One of the robed ones screamed at last. “Help! Please!” he screamed at Tim Hamner and ran toward him.
The mob pursued. They were looking at Tim Hamner, all those eyes at once, and he thought, They’ll believe I’m with them! Then a worse thought: I could be recognized. As the man who invented the Hammer…
Time was too short to consider the idea. Tim reached into the trunk and brought out the portable tape unit. The robed youth running toward him had a wispy blond beard and a lean face set in classic lines of terror. Tim shoved his microphone toward the Warden and said loudly, “One moment, please, sir. Just how—”
Insulted and betrayed, the man swiped at the microphone and ran past him. The other two fugitives, and most of the mob, had continued on down the street — toward the dead end, and of course that was a pity. Some burly types ran past Tim, chasing the robed man into the broken building. One stopped, panting, and looked at Tim.
Hamner lifted the microphone again. “Sir? Have you any idea how all this happened?”
“Hell, yes… buddy. Those sons of bitches… those Wardens blocked us off just as we… were taking off for Big Bear. They were… going to stop the comet by praying. Didn’t… work, and they… trapped us here, and we’ve… already killed about… half of the motherfuckers.”
It was working! Somehow nobody ever thinks of killing a newsman. Too vividly public, maybe: The whole world is watching. Other rioters had stopped, were crowding around, but not as if they were waiting their turn to kill Tim Hamner. They were waiting for a chance to speak.
“Who you with?” one demanded.
“KNBS,” Tim said. He fumbled in his pockets for the press-card Harvey Randall had given him. There it was. Tim flashed it, but kept his thumb over the name.
“Can you get a message out?” the man demanded. “Send for—”
Tim shook his head. “This is a recorder, not a remote unit. The rest of the crew will be here soon. I hope.” He turned back to the first man. “How are you planning to get out now?”
“Don’t know. Walk out, I guess.” He seemed to have lost interest in the fleeing Wardens.
“Thank you, sir. Would you mind signing…” Tim brought out a stack of NBS release forms. The big man stepped back as if they’d been scorpions. He looked thoughtful for a second.
“Forget it, buddy.” He turned and walked away. Others followed, and the whole crowd melted away, leaving Tim alone by the ruins of his car.
Hamner put the press card into his shirt pocket, adjusting it so that the big lettering, PRESS, was visible, but his name wasn’t. Then he put the recorder’s strap over his shoulder. He also carried the microphone and a stack of release forms. It was all heavy and awkward, but it was worth it. He did not laugh.
Alameda was filled with horrors. A woman dressed in an expensive pant-quit was jumping up and down on a lumpy white robe. Tim looked away. When he looked back, there were more people swarming around him. They carried bloody tire irons. A man swung toward him, swung an enormous handgun toward Tim’s navel. Tim pointed the microphone at him. “Excuse me, sir. How did you manage to get trapped in this mess?” The man cried as he told his tale…
There was someone at Tim’s elbow. Hamner hesitated, not wanting to look away; the man with the gun was still talking, tears of rage running down his face, and his gun still pointed at Tim’s navel. He looked earnestly into Hamner’s eyes. Whatever he saw, he hadn’t fired yet…
Who the devil was that? Someone reaching for the release forms—
Eileen! Eileen Hancock? Tim held the microphone motionless as Eileen stepped briskly to his side. He let her take the release forms.
“Okay, Chief, I’m here,” she said. “Bit of trouble back there…”
Tim almost fainted. She wasn’t going to blow his cover, thank God she had brains for that. Tim nodded, his eyes still fixed on his interview subject. “Glad you got here,” Tim said from the corner of his mouth, speaking low as if worried about ruining the interview. He did not smile.
“…and if I see another of the sons of bitches I’ll kill him too!”
“Thank you, sir,” Tim said gravely. “I don’t suppose you’d care to sign—”
“Sign? Sign what?”
“A release form.”
The gun swung up to point at Tim’s face. “You bastard!” the man screamed.
“Anonymous subject,” Eileen said. “Sir — you do know there’s a newspersons’ shield law in California, don’t you?”
“What—”
“We can’t be forced to reveal our sources,” Eileen said. “You don’t need to worry. It’s the law.”
“Oh.” The man looked around. The other rioters had gone, somewhere, and it was raining. He looked at Tim, and at Eileen, and at the gun in hi
s hand. There were more tears. Then he turned and walked away. After a few steps he ran.
Somewhere a woman screamed, short and sharp. The background noise was screams and moans and thunder, thunder always, and very near. A brisk wind had risen. Two men were atop an intact car with a shoulder-carried television camera. No way to tell how long they’d been there, but they were all alone on an island of privacy. And so were Tim and Eileen.
“Rioters are publicity-shy,” Tim said. “Glad to see you. I’d forgotten you work around here.”
“Worked,” Eileen said. She pointed toward the ruins of Corrigan’s. “I don’t suppose anyone will be selling plumbing supplies…”
“Not from Burbank,” Tim said. “I am glad to see you. You know that, don’t you? What do we do now?”
“You’re the expert.”
Lightning crackled nearby. The hills of Griffith Park were aflame with blue flashes.
“High ground,” Tim said. “And fast.”
Eileen looked puzzled. She pointed at the lightning.
“That might hit us,” he agreed. “But we’ve a better chance out of this river valley. Feel the rain? And there may be…”
“Yes?”
“Tidal wave,” Tim said.
“Jesus. It’s real, isn’t it? This way, then. Up into the Verdugo Hills. We can hike across. How much time do we have?”
“I don’t know. Depends on where it hit. They hit, probably,” Tim was surprised at how calm his voice was.
Eileen began walking. East on Alameda. The route led toward the head of the traffic jam, where the huddled bodies of the Wardens lay. As they got near, a car roared off through the intersection, into a filling station beyond, then onto the sidewalk. It squeezed through between a wall and a telephone pole, scraping paint off the right side.
The car that had been behind it was now clear, and it was unlocked. Keys dangled in the ignition. Eileen waved Tim toward it. “How good a driver are you?” she demanded.
“Okay.”
“I’ll drive,” she said firmly. “I’m damned good at it.” She got into the driver’s seat and started the car. It was an elderly Chrysler, once a luxury car. Now the rugs were worn and it had ugly stains on the seat covers. When the motor turned over with a steady purr, Tim thought it the most beautiful car he’d ever seen.
Eileen took the route of the previous car. They drove over a white robe, bump; she didn’t slow. The space between the telephone pole and the wall was narrow, but she went through it at speed, twenty miles an hour anyway, without worrying about it. Tim held his breath until they were through.
The street curved gently ahead of them. There were cars jammed in both lanes of traffic, and Eileen kept on the sidewalk, veering off into yards when she had to to avoid more utility poles. She drove through rose beds and manicured lawns until they were past the traffic jam.
“Lord God, you are a good driver,” Tim said.
Eileen didn’t look up. She was busy avoiding obstructions. Some of the obstructions were people. “Should we warn them?” she asked.
“Would it do any good? But yes,” Tim said. He opened the window on his side. The rain was coming down hard now, and the salt stung his eyes. “Get to high ground,” he shouted. “Tidal waves. Flood! Get to high ground,” he shouted into the rising wind. People stared at him as they went by. A few looked around wildly, and once Tim saw a man grab a woman and dash for a car in sudden decision.
They turned a corner, and there were red flames. A whole block of houses was burning out of control, burning despite the rain. The wind blew flaming chips into the air.
Another time they slowed to avoid rubble in the street. A woman ran toward them carrying a bundled blanket. Before Eileen could accelerate, the woman had reached the car. She thrust the blanket in the window. “His name is John!” she shouted. “Take care of him!”
“But — don’t you want—”
Tim couldn’t finish. The woman had turned away. “Two more back there!” she screamed. “John. John Mason. Remember his name!”
Eileen speeded up again. Tim opened the bundle. There was a baby in it. It didn’t move. Tim felt for a heartbeat, and his hand came out covered with blood. It was bright red, copper blood, and the smell filled the car despite the warm salt smell of the rain.
“Dead,” Tim said.
“Throw him out,” Eileen said.
“But—”
“We aren’t going to eat him. We won’t be that hungry.”
It shocked Tim, so much that he thrust the baby out the window and let go. “I — it felt like I was letting some of my life drop onto that pavement,” he said.
“Do you think I like it?” Eileen’s voice was pinched. Tim looked at her in alarm; there were tears streaming down her cheeks. “That woman thinks she saved her child. At least she thinks that. It’s all we could have done for her.”
“Yes,” Tim said gently.
“If… When. When we’ve got to high ground, when we know what’s happening, we can start thinking civilization again,” Eileen said. “Until then, we survive.”
“If we can.”
“We will.” She drove on, grimly. The rain was coming down so hard that she couldn’t see, despite the windshield wipers speeding away, smearing grime and salt water across the windshield.
The Golden State Freeway had cracked. The underpass was blocked with wreckage. A tangle of cars and a large gasoline tank truck lay in the midst of a spreading pool of fire.
“Jesus,” Tim said. “That’s… shouldn’t we stop?”
“What for?” Eileen turned left and drove parallel to the freeway. “Anyone who’s going to survive that has got out already.”
They were driving through a residential area. The houses had mostly survived intact. They both felt relief; for a few moments there was no one hurt, broken or dying. They found another underpass, and Eileen drove toward it.
The way had been blocked by a traffic barrier. Someone had torn down the barrier. Eileen drove through it. As she did, another car came out of the rain ahead. It dashed past, horn screaming.
“Why would anyone be going into the valley?” Tim demanded.
“Wives. Sweethearts. Children,” Eileen said. They were climbing now. When the way was blocked by twisted remains of buildings and cars, Eileen turned left, bearing north and east always. They passed the ruins of a hospital. Police in blue, nurses in rain-soaked white poked at the wreckage. One of the policemen stopped and looked at them. Tim leaned out the window and screamed at him. “Get to high ground! Flood! Tidal wave! High ground!”
The policeman waved, then turned back to the wreckage of the hospital.
Tim stared moodily at the swirling smears on the windshield. He blinked back tears of his own.
Eileen had a moment to glance at him. Her hand touched his before returning to the wheel. “We couldn’t have helped. They’ve got cars, and enough people…”
“I guess.” He wondered if he meant it. The nightmare ride went on, as the car climbed toward the Verdugo Hills, past wrecked stucco houses, a fallen school, burning houses and intact houses. Whenever they saw anyone, Tim screamed warning. It made him feel a little better for not stopping.
He glanced at his watch. Incredibly, less than forty minutes had passed since he’d seen the bright flash. He muttered it: “Forty minutes. H plus forty minutes, and counting.”
The wave rushes outward from the center of the Gulf of Mexico, moving at 760 miles an hour. When it reaches the shallows along the coast of Texas and Louisiana, the foot of the wave stumbles. More and more water rushes up behind, piling higher and higher until a towering monster half a kilometer high falls forward and flows up onto the land.
Galveston and Texas City vanish under the pounding waves. The water that flows westward through the swamps into El Lago, further west into Houston itself, is now filled with debris. The wave strikes all along the arc from Brownsville, Texas, to Pensacola, Florida, seeking lowlands, rivers, any path inland and away from the burning
hell at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico.
The waters pile high along the Florida west coast; then they break across, carrying with them the sandy soil. They leave behind channels scoured clean, a myriad of passages from the Gulf to the Atlantic Ocean. The Gulf Stream will be cooler and much smaller for centuries to come.
The waters crossing Florida are capricious. Here a reflected wave joins the main body of rushing water to build even higher; there a reflection cancels, leaving parts of the Okefenokee Swamp untouched. Havana and the Florida Keys vanish instantly. Miami en joys an hour’s respite until the waves from the Atlantic strikes rush down, meet the outrushing waves from the Gulf, overpower them, and crash into Florida’s eastern cities.
Atlantic waters pour into the Gulf of Mexico through the newly formed cross-Florida channels. The saucer bowl of the Gulf cannot hold it all, and the waters once again flow west and north, across the already drowned lands. One wave rushes up the Mississippi. It is forty feet above flood level when it passes Memphis, Tennessee.
Fred Lauren had been at the window all night. The bars didn’t hide the sky at all. They’d put him alone in a cell after they photographed and fingerprinted him, and they left him. At noon he’d be taken to the Los Angeles Jail.
Fred laughed. At noon there wouldn’t be a Los Angeles Jail. There’d be no Los Angeles. They’d never get a chance to put him in with those other men. Memories of another prison came, and he swept them away with better thoughts.
He remembered Colleen. He’d gone to her door with presents. He only wanted to talk. She’d been afraid of him, hut he was inside before she could bolt the door, and he’d brought very nice presents for her, nice enough that she’d let him stand by the door while she stood on the other side of the room and looked at the jewelry and the gloves and red shoes, and then she’d wondered how he knew her sizes, and he told her.
He’d talked and talked, and after awhile she was friendly and let him sit down. She’d offered him a drink and they’d talked some more, and she had two drinks for herself, and then another. She’d been pleased that he knew so much about her. He didn’t tell her about the telescope, of course, but he’d told her how he knew where she worked, and where she shopped, and how beautiful she was…
