Donnie turns on his cell and gets the same white screen, the same message.
“Great, now what?”
“We’ve got two choices. We can stay here, live in the cave and look for food and water locally or we can head over to Tahoe and look for survivors, too.”
“I can’t stay here, Eric. I can’t look at this anymore. I just can’t.”
“Okay then. Let’s load the backpacks with the food we have left in the cave and start walking.”
Baja, Mexico
Mateo is the first Guerrero to awaken. He hasn’t slept well all night since the earthquake. The others had awakened briefly during the shaking, realized they were reasonably safe under the big rocks then gone back to sleep after the movement ceased, all except for Mateo. He’d felt big earthquakes in Mexico before, but none that lasted nearly as long as last night’s. It had to be a record for Baja, a record for the whole world in fact. He feels nauseated, disoriented and really, really scared.
Mateo climbs out of his sleeping bag and awakens the others one by one, starting with his dad, Matias, and then his Uncle Diego.
“Everybody up!” Mateo wants desperately to get out from under the huge rocks and return home to his normal life.
“Let’s get everyone away from these rocks. Everybody up! We need to leave, pronto.” Diego gets up, urinates on the last vestiges of their campfire and heads right to the van where he sets about cleaning the battery terminals and contacts. By the time he’s finished, Matias, the women and children have loaded the van and are standing behind Diego ready to leave. Diego gives the battery connections one final inspection, closes the hood and realizes that their families have just set an all-time speed record for getting ready to leave a vacation spot. He scans the anxiously expectant faces and shakes his head with a light chuckle.
“So what are you waiting for?”
Diego is still shaking his head as he starts up the van. Everyone piles in and he drives slowly away from the rocky outcropping that has just saved their’ lives. The thick cloud cover prevented the Guerreros from witnessing the Diablo-moon collision. They have no idea what caused the earthquake, and they have no context for their survival. As far as they know, the rest of the world is business as usual.
Indian Hills, Nevada
Nothing in all her years of learning or teaching science prepared Meg Baker for the hours she laid motionless and petrified with fear under that marble graveyard headstone. It had crash-landed just a few inches from her face; close enough for her to smell the marble glaze. She runs her hands across the rock monster’s polished texture. There is no way to move the half-ton stone and she is too freaked out to sleep. The little ravine she had chosen to lie down in and watch the collision from had saved her life. She spends the rest of the night replaying the collision in her mind, watching the slow-motion devastation of two large bodies colliding over and over again, burning it deep into her memory.
Dawn brings just enough light for Meg to fully realize her predicament. The only way out is headfirst, and a very tight squeeze at that.
She turns her head just enough to visually estimate the opening. From her vantage point it doesn’t look wide enough to accommodate her head and shoulders together. Somehow she must figure out a way to propel her body into the open space while lying face-up with almost no room to maneuver her hands and feet. Thinking about her escape plan raises her spirits just enough to help her relax her body and slow her breathing so she can think clearly.
“Okay, Ms. Baker, think like a snake.” Meg has always found reptiles fascinating. She digs in her heels and claws at the soil with both hands. By alternately lifting and extending herself, contracting and relaxing her muscles, she uses her shoulders to slither toward the opening. Inch by painful inch, she snakes herself backward until the top of her head is almost even with the narrow opening between the stone monolith and the ravine. Then she slowly raises her right arm by bending and sliding it along through the rocky soil until she has it positioned directly over her head. She slips her arm out through the open space easily.
With one hand free, she runs her fingers across the top edge of the headstone. She uses her leverage and grip strength against the marble and tries pulling herself out with one hand. After several minutes of pulling and relaxing and pulling again, she finally frees her head. In a few more minutes she works her left shoulder past the opening. Meg feels as if she is being reborn, only this time she’s in a cemetery and there’s no one around to witness it.
She uses her elbows for leverage and slides herself completely out from under the massive headstone. Once her legs are free, she sits up and looks around in horror. Not a single headstone is left standing. The trees have all been flattened, snapped from their trunks like toothpicks or completely uprooted.
South Lake Tahoe
The little motel has been crushed flat. Hannibal and Satin, who had been sitting on the porch getting drunk when the first massive wave of energy hit them, are shoved facedown to the ground and buried under a mound of broken chimney bricks, wood framing sections and smashed furnishings.
When Hannibal opens his eyes, he sees nothing but darkness. His ears are still ringing and he feels an enormous weight on top of him. He tries to move. Then he hears the rustle of something close by. It is Satin, alive and awake.
“Hannibal, you there?”
Hannibal mumbles a quick “Yeah.”
“What the fuck happened? Was that an earthquake? Holy shit! I think my arm is broken, Hannibal. I can’t move it and it hurts like hell.”
“The good news is we’re alive.” Though Hannibal cannot see her, Satin’s head is less than a foot away from his. He tries to move again in the tight space they now share. Satin is lying close enough to his right side that he’s able to slide his right hand toward her until he feels her tight denim jeans hugging her hip. He places his hand on her thigh.
“That better be you, Hannibal.”
“Who else would it be?”
“Not who, what? I hear some tarantulas are as big as a fucking fist.”
“It’s not a tarantula.” He squeezes her thigh to make his point.
“Good because you know how much I hate spiders.”
Of course Hannibal knows. If she told him once, she told him a hundred times. Satin refuses to share her space, any space, with a live spider. Hannibal had learned about her extreme arachnophobia on the night of their second date. They were lying in bed together watching the flickering candlelight as it danced shadows across the walls and ceiling of his New York apartment.
“Spider!” Satin sat up and switched on the night table lamp. “Kill it for me?”
“It’s just a daddy longlegs. It’s harmless. Unless you’re another spider.”
“Fine. I’ll kill it myself.”
The spider was hunkered down on the wall up near the ceiling. Satin pushed Hannibal’s desk chair over to the wall then scanned Hannibal’s studio for the appropriate weapon. Hannibal watched her every move, grinning. Physically, he loved everything about her, from her long jet-black hair down to her painted toenails, along with every curve and valley in between.
He continued studying her as she moved about catlike in her sheer nightie. She found the hammer he’d left on the kitchen counter. She took it in her right hand, tightened her grip and headed for the chair with all the determination of a predatory lioness.
“Please, Satin, not the hammer. Use my shoe.”
Satin, however, could not be stopped. She stood on the chair, reached up and swung the hammer hard enough to drive a ten-penny nail through a two-by-four. Neither the spider nor Hannibal’s wall stood a chance. It was at that moment, with a large hole in his wall and a satisfied smirk on Satin’s face, Hannibal had fallen in love with her.
Now, in this moment, all he feels is the enormous weight of the rubble on top of them. The air in that narrow space is heavy with settling dust, making it hard for them to breathe. If there is one thing in the world that Hannibal hates, it is the oppressive
feeling of smothering pressure. It doesn’t matter to him if it comes from the humid air of summer in New York City or a big pile of rubble that was once a quaint little motel in Lake Tahoe.
Hannibal fears they don’t have much time left. The air in the tight space is filling quickly with waves of settling dust. Somehow, he must use his strength and move just enough rubble to allow fresh air in or they will surely suffocate. As it is, he doesn’t have enough room to perform a standard push-up. He can feel his anger rising from his confinement, a big adrenaline rush to help him push harder against the mounting pressure than he has ever pushed anything in his life.
“I can’t feel my arm anymore, Hannibal.”
“Just close your eyes, baby. I’m about to bust us out of here.”
Then, drawing upon every ounce of muscle in his body, he props himself up on his elbows and pushes upward with all the explosive power he can muster from his arms, back and shoulders. He is quick and violent enough to disturb the rubble but not clear it, so he rests a bit, gathers his strength and repeats the same motion, managing a full push-up this time. The weight of the rubble shifts just enough to let in some daylight and fresh air. Hannibal takes one final deep breath, pushes himself to his knees and then explodes upward, using all of his body strength and looking more like The Incredible Hulk or an angry lowland silverback gorilla than a bald New York trucker. He bursts out of the pile and stands over it menacingly, breathing hard. Then he turns toward Satin.
“Baby? You still there?”
“Where else would I be? Geez, Hannibal, try not to kill yourself.”
Hannibal immediately begins tearing away the largest sections of wood and debris, pulling everything he can get his hands on away from Satin’s position. As long as she is there, pinned beneath all that junk with a broken arm, a bad hangover and difficulty breathing, she is completely helpless.
Hannibal works feverishly for nearly an hour. He is so focused on clearing away rubble and freeing Satin that he doesn’t bother looking around.
When he finally frees her from the rubble and helps her to her feet Satin clings to him with her good arm and kisses him repeatedly. He wants desperately to hug her tightly but he is afraid he’ll only hurt her more. She lets go finally and uses her good arm to guard her obviously broken arm.
Then, for the first time, they look around and stare in disbelief at the carnage that surrounds them. It looks as if a giant steamroller has just barreled over the landscape and leveled everything, including Hannibal’s truck, as far as the eye can see. The truck looks more like the victim of a giant, junkyard auto compactor, a veritable pancake stack of twisted metals.
“Holy shit, Hannibal! It even fucked up your truck.”
Dana Point
Seven hours after the initial shockwaves and earthquake, Alex Jacks finally ventures outside the bomb shelter for the first time. He expects the worst as he opens the shelter door and steps out into the cloud-covered morning.
The first thing Alex notices is that the Dana Point he so fondly remembers is gone. It has disappeared overnight. People once strolled casually, mingled at seaside restaurants and coffee shops and walked their designer dogs in this idyllic place, which has now been crushed by a giant invisible hand. Most of the Jacks’ home has been crushed, too. Only part of the master bedroom and bath are still partially upright and somewhat recognizable. The rest is as flat as a tortilla and surrounded by dozens of structures crushed equally flat.
As far as Alex can see, there is nothing but wreckage. The once peaceful marina has been reduced to broken, sunken boats and dirty seawater. The rising ocean has consumed several hundred feet of prime coastline and waterfront real estate. The boats, cars, shops, homes, gas stations and paved streets are gone, too.
The second thing Alex notices is that there is no one else around. There are no cheery “good mornings” from his next-door neighbors. The letter carrier, who usually makes his rounds early in Alex’s neighborhood is conspicuously absent. As far as Alex can see, nothing is standing or moving in any direction. There is only the quiet, eerie stillness – and a large German shepherd dog nuzzling Alex’s leg!
Startled, Alex looks down and barely recognizes his neighbor’s seeing-eye dog beneath a two-inch layer of grey-black dust and wood-chips. He is grateful that the dog has survived. He suspects that it may have been trapped in the crawl space beneath the house, though he will never know for sure. He remembers the dog’s name.
“Samson, how you doing, boy?” Alex kneels down and brushes as much of the dust and debris away as he can. The dog eyes him gratefully and whimpers.
“What’s the matter? You hurt, boy?” Alex checks him thoroughly.
Samson is dirty but not visibly injured. He nuzzles Alex insistently with his snout and whimpers again. Then he nuzzles him again, as if urging Alex to move forward.
“What is it, boy? Show me what it is.”
Samson heads toward the remains of his home. Alex follows him to the far corner of the debris. Samson’s owners were a childless older couple. The husband had been blinded by advanced diabetes. Samson had been his loyal seeing-eye dog for the last four years of his life.
Samson stops near the debris and whimpers again.
The elderly couple must have been asleep beside each other when the end came. They were crushed flat beneath the ceiling, the attic and the roof above them. Samson knows they are gone. He plops down as close to their remains as he can get, rests his head on his paws and whimpers again pathetically.
Alex can feel the animal’s profound sadness. He kneels next to the shepherd and rubs its head gently.
“It’s okay. You’re our dog now, Samson. Come on, boy.” Alex stands and starts walking back to what’s left of his own house and his family. Samson jumps to his feet, shakes himself off and follows Alex obediently. Like Alex, Jessa and Deuce, he is incredibly lucky to be alive. He follows Alex down the steep narrow steps into the bomb shelter.
“Look what I found!” Alex steps aside as Samson scrambles down the steps ahead of him, goes straight to Deuce and laps his face.
“Samson!” Deuce hugs the shepherd tightly. “You made it!”
Jessa is happy to see Samson, too, pets the dog maternally.
“So what’s it like out there?” Jessa already has her suspicions.
“You don’t want to know.” Alex sits next to her. “It’s all gone, everything. Crushed and gone.”
“The house?” asks Jessa.
“You might still recognize part of the master suite and one bathroom, but there’s no power, no services, no cars and no signs of life, except for Samson. The marina’s gone and we have a new shoreline at least a couple hundred feet inland. This shelter saved us, Jess, plus enough supplies to last about eight months. With Samson, we’re probably looking at six months’ worth of food and water.”
“You mean we have six months to live?”
“No, I mean we have six months to find more food and water,” says Alex. “So starting tomorrow, Deuce and I will go out searching. We’ll do that every day until we find what we need.”
Jessa hugs him tightly. For the first time in fifteen years, she is grateful that she married a survival nut. She is sorry for all the times she scolded Alex about his survival book fetish and the Doomsday Preppers marathons he watched for hours on dreary Saturday and Sunday afternoons.
“What if you don’t find anything?”
“I can’t think like that, Jess. We’ve got to be positive. If we can’t find anything local in four or five months, we’ll pack whatever supplies are left into our backpacks and head for the nearest freshwater source. Irvine Lake is closest. There’s water and fish and we can walk there and back in a day.”
“Well, don’t wait too long.” Jessa kisses his cheek and rubs her nose against him like she always does, Eskimo style. “How many times have you said you wish your life could be simpler and you could ‘escape the enslavement of work’? Looks like you got your wish, honey.”
Lake Tahoe, S
eptember 5
Sam Hayden fiddles with the tuning knobs on his old shortwave radio, nudging them in slight increments looking for something other than static. Sam fears this might be his only connection to the outside world after a total electrical grid failure. With shortwave, he can bounce radio waves off the ionosphere and back down to Earth, where other shortwave operators might pick them up. Without working cellphones or land-based phones, shortwave radio, once thought to be a useless relic, is now the only wireless way to communicate long distances around the curvature of the Earth. It may be low-tech, but it also has enormous emergency communications and lifesaving potential.
“You’ve been at this for hours, Dad. Any luck?” Julia stands behind him preparing herself to venture outside.
“Two hits. A man in the Netherlands said the ground shook and they lost power. They suffered heavy casualties but still have some survivors. No shockwave damages. Got a similar report from a German teenager.”
“That’s it? Two billion shortwave radios on planet Earth and you’ve spoken to two people?”
“So far, but I’m going to keep trying. Haven’t used this thing in twenty years and my touch is probably a little off.”
“Well, I’m going out to look around and have a good pee.” Julia goes to the trap door and pushes hard with both hands. She opens it and steps out.
“Stay alert, Jules. Let’s not give ourselves away until it’s safe.”
Julia pushes her way outside and gasps. The cabin is in shambles. There is only enough of it left to rebuild a rudimentary shelter. There will be no more hot showers or evenings by the fireplace sipping tea and reading a good book. She walks very slowly around the wreckage and stops occasionally to kick at some random piece of debris.
A bit of color catches her attention, the corner of a small decorative pillow her mother handmade years ago. Julia yanks it from the pile and shakes the dust off. She remembers watching her mom painstakingly needlepoint a full moon and stars against an electric blue background, the universe. She had made it for Sam when he landed the NASA gig and Caltech professorship.
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