Julia Hayden stands knee-deep in Lake Tahoe with her pant legs rolled up. She remains totally still, stares at the water hypnotically while silvery little mosquito fishes nip at her feet and toes. She is lost in a sweet reverie, a little girl again standing in this exact spot while her dad fishes from the bank behind her. She was only five years old when Sam taught her to be perfectly still like a statue so as not to scare away the fishes.
Julia stands there thinking she can still smell her mother’s homemade ground beef chili and refried beans as the odors waft through the crisp mountain air, and she suddenly feels very hungry.
The sudden, unexpected sound of other human beings screaming in the distance shatters her reverie. Julia’s consciousness shifts immediately to the thought of more survivors.
“Hey, over here!” Hannibal and Satin head upstream toward her, both screaming. Hannibal waves his arms wildly while Satin jumps up and down. Julia spots them, waves back.
“Hey!”
They are one hundred fifty yards away, so it takes them a few minutes to reach Julia. She hikes up the short rocky embankment, dries her feet and slips her boots back on. As she watches the couple approach, she realizes that the female has her arm in a sling and moves tentatively over the rocks and sand.
Despite her injury, Satin runs to Julia and hugs her with her good arm. “Thank God. We were beginning to think we were the only ones left.”
“Are you alone?” asks Hannibal.
“I’m with my dad. We had a little cabin up here before the shockwaves crushed it. I’m Julia.” She extends her hand to Hannibal.
“So it was shockwaves.” Hannibal shakes Julia’s hand. “Hannibal Morrone, ma’am, and this here is my girl, Satin Montenegro. I’m a long-distance truck driver. I was supposed to make my last delivery here. Now my rig’s dead and she broke her arm when the motel fell on us.”
Julia eyes Satin’s arm with the makeshift sling, chuckles involuntarily.
“What the fuck’s so amusing?” Satin doesn’t mince her words.
“I’m sorry. It was the matter-of-fact way you said it, about as funny as our cabin falling on my dad and me. I’m sure many people had things fall on them last night. They weren’t as lucky as we were, if you call this lucky.”
“This lake has freshwater and fish, right? I’d say we’re extremely lucky.” Hannibal’s gaze shifts from Julia to the lake. He smiles, satisfied.
“You’re right. There are worse places we could have ended up.”
Satin seems hypnotized by the lake. “This place is like fucking paradise.”
Julia bristles at Satin’s crude language and wonders if she is the daughter or the girlfriend. He did say, ‘my girl.’ Julia’s more than a bit unnerved by Hannibal’s skinhead appearance. And completely put off by their harsh New York accents. She is unaccustomed to being around coarse, unpolished strangers and she eyes them now with a mixture of disdain and caution. She clears her throat and tries to act naturally.
“According to my dad, he is ... was ... an astrophysicist at Caltech, the collision caused a mass extinction-level event. My dad and I managed to ride it out in our tiny underground storage room. You’re the first humans we’ve seen.”
“A mass extinction-level event. Holy shit, Hannibal, I can’t believe how really, really fortunate we are.” Satin turns back to Julia. “Exactly how massive is this mass extinction?”
“Dad says it could be ninety-five percent ... maybe higher.”
Satin is beyond shocked. “It doesn’t get much worse than ninety-five percent. So where are you sleeping? Any chance we could bunk with you guys tonight?”
“No, sorry. Our little storage room barely sleeps two. However, there are plenty of fallen trees if you’re inclined to build a lean-to, and there are caves up in the hills if you prefer immediate shelter.”
Hannibal and Satin exchange looks of puzzlement and confusion. Build a lean-to or pick a cave? Not exactly the kind of home choices they ever expected to make.
“There’s a decent cave right around here. There it is.” Julia points to a spot up on a nearby hill and then starts walking away from them, “I’d better go check on my dad. He’ll be happy to hear there are more survivors.”
Hannibal senses Julia’s discomfort. Something about them put her off. “Well, good meeting you, Julia. Sorry if we scared you.”
“You didn’t scare me.” Julia leaves them with their mouths hanging open. It’s ironic to finally find another survivor who wants nothing to do with them. As suddenly as she appeared, Julia is gone.
“We really need to watch our language around strangers.” Hannibal plops down on a large rock and pulls Satin down beside him. “Looks like it’s just you and me.” He reaches deep into his jeans pocket and pulls out a slightly crumpled, tightly rolled, zip-lock sandwich bag. He unrolls the baggie and waves it in her face. Inside are three intact, perfectly rolled joints and two books of wooden matches. He grins. “You like?”
“I swear you’re a fucking mind-reader, Hannibal! I was just thinking I could really use some weed right about now. I’m all like wouldn’t it be great if I could catch a good buzz, collect myself and enjoy the view and, Voila, you pull out the magic baggie.”
“I was saving it for a special occasion. Finding this place and being among the last five percent of humanity definitely qualifies.”
The first match works on the first strike. Hannibal lights the joint and passes it to Satin. She inhales deeply and passes it back as the sun sets on Lake Tahoe.
“You know what this is?” Satin exhales and looks into his eyes.
“What?”
“It’s as if someone hit a big invisible clock reset button. Only instead of losing an hour, we just lost a hundred thousand years. Welcome to the fucking Stone Age.”
“Yeah and you know what else?”
“What?”
“I just discovered my first stone tool.” Hannibal stares down at his bulging crotch, winks at her.
“God, does anything ever stop you?”
Washington, DC
President Harrison and Theo Robinson walk together along Connecticut Avenue toward the Kennedy-Warren Apartments in the swanky upper west side neighborhood where they maintain separate residences. The street is deserted, littered with dead cars, taxicabs and delivery vans. An 8.9 quake, the largest recorded in Washington, DC and along the East Coast, damaged virtually every structure in the nation’s Capitol and the surrounding communities. The Kennedy-Warren is no exception.
The ten-story Kennedy-Warren Apartments once offered a level of elegance unsurpassed by any other complex in Washington, DC. Residents here enjoyed world-class amenities and a luxurious retreat with a modern health club, a sixty-foot lap pool, steam rooms and high-tech cardio equipment. There was a landscaped rooftop sun deck and large outdoor patio overlooking the National Zoo and Rock Creek Park. Residents also enjoyed round-the-clock concierge service with a front desk, shops and a spacious, covered parking garage fully staffed twenty-four hours a day.
The top floors had collapsed into one other and only the first two floors remained undamaged. President Harrison and Theo lived on the first floor because the President had an unnatural fear of elevators and heights. She and her husband, Nate Harrison, preferred living close to the exits, too. Nate hated living in the White House. He said it was too formal for his taste. She half expected to find him in his trademark T-shirt and sweatpants nonchalantly reading a book or doing a crossword puzzle when she arrived.
She and Theo are within fifty yards of the Kennedy-Warren when three thuggish-looking young males suddenly appear from the shadows of the Rock Creek Park entrance and approach them menacingly. The President and Theo keep walking, quickening their pace. These are not the kind of survivors either of them wants to connect with.
The three young men, two African-Americans and one Caucasian, all twenty-something, follow them, closing the distance until they surround the President and Theo. Even in the dim light of the fading full moon, they recognize Presid
ent Harrison immediately.
“Well, look at this,” says the big Caucasian getting right up in the President’s face, “It’s America’s first black female POTUS in the flesh, all up close and personal-like. It figures the head of government would survive this mess. You should’ve warned us before this shit went down, Camilla. You could’ve saved all the little people who pay your salary. Now look. Your power, your money, your ridiculous taxes and your Secret Service protection don’t mean shit.”
President Harrison doesn’t flinch, but Theo shifts nervously, clears his throat.
“Hey, we don’t want any trouble. We’re just trying to get to our families.”
“My family’s dead,” says the shorter African-American man.
“Mine, too,” says the taller black male.
“All our families are dead,” says the big Caucasian, glaring. “Thanks to our useless, overpaid and over-privileged U.S. Federal Government.”
“Come on, we had nothing to do with the collision or the earthquake. You can’t blame acts of Nature or God on government.” President Harrison tries using logic.
“We can do whatever we want. Who’s stopping us? You?”
“No one is stopping you. But right now, you’re stopping us from getting to our families... who might still be alive.” President Harrison tries brushing past them but the big Caucasian steps in front of her. Then he pulls a 10mm Glock from the back of his waistband, cocks it and points it at the President’s head.
Theo moves to help her but the other two thugs grab him and hold him back.
“Me and Raffa and Deion here have decided to start a campaign for less government.” He glares at her, the gun still aimed at the middle of her forehead. “By the way, my name’s Jack and I voted for your sorry ass. I believed you would make things better, but you’re just another politician full of empty promises like all the rest.”
“You don’t have to do this, Jack. There’s no government to be angry at anymore. We’re just citizens now, like you. We can help each other get through this. We can make a new beginning.” Theo pleads for his life.
“How you going to help us?” asks Deion angrily. “We got what we need.”
“There’s still one thing we need that we don’t have,” says Jack.
“What’s that?” asks Deion.
“Less government,” says Jack, pushing the massive Glock muzzle against the President’s head. Then without a moment’s hesitation, he pulls the trigger.
Dana Point, September 9
Without mass communications, Alex Jacks has no way of knowing that the United States government has just been beheaded or that the United States of America as he remembers it is no more. A thriving nation of three hundred thirty million people has been reduced to tiny, scattered, isolated pockets of desperate survivors.
Strong earthquakes have rocked the country from coast to coast. New York City, Long Island and the entire state of Florida have been swallowed by the Atlantic Ocean. Bermuda, the Bahamas, Cuba, the Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico are gone, too. The new Atlantic coastline is hundreds of miles inland on the heels of wave after wave of killer tsunamis and the accompanying sea level rise. The total loss of life, property and resources is staggering.
Alex sits on a car seat he’s found in the rubble and looks out over what was once one of the most scenic and serene seaside communities in Southern California. During March and April, whale watching cruises used to depart twice each day from the Dana Point Harbor marina. Alex had often spent Saturday morning people watching or reading in his favorite spot at the marina’s patio coffee shop. Now, Alex has only his memories of sipping triple-shot café mochas and watching friendly locals walk their dogs. He wonders whether the whales are still out there or if sea life has fared any better than land-based animals.
The apocalypse that some doomsday alarmists had feared back in December of 2012, at the end of the Mayan long-count calendar, had finally arrived fifteen years later, quite unexpectedly. Alex’s worst fears, his frequent premonitions of an epic catastrophe occurring during his lifetime, had come true. Now he fears that Deuce will never realize his potential as a science and technology whiz. All of Alex’s hopes, dreams and expectations for the future have been erased. What remains is a clean slate with barely enough room for one word: Survival.
Deuce emerges from the shelter and stands next to his dad.
“I never thought everything would change so fast.”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” says Alex.
On the ground nearby are the spoils they have found since they first emerged from the bomb shelter. A two-foot length of rebar that will make an effective weapon, a tattered baseball cap, a pile of round stones good for throwing and a few articles of mismatched clothing. If Alex or Deuce thinks something might be useful, they pick it up and add it to the pile.
“I think we should hike to the lake tomorrow,” says Alex.
“Sure. It’s kind of boring around here.”
“Yeah, must be tough. No zombies to kill with your online buddies, nothing to watch on YouTube. You‘ve got too much unused bandwidth, Deuce.”
“Thanks for reminding me.”
The next day, after they fill their backpacks with extra-large protein bars and enough water to get them to Irvine Lake for refills, they set out on Pacific Coast Highway and head north, leaving Jessa behind with Samson. Before they leave, Deuce gives Jessa the rebar.
“If you hit something hard enough with this, you’ll kill it.” Deuce swings the rebar with both hands like a baseball bat to make his point. Then he kisses her goodbye. “We should be back tonight. You and Samson stay extra-careful.”
Pacific Coast Highway is littered with car and truck carcasses as far as Alex and Deuce can see. There is no sunshine. The sky remains thick and gray above them; a perpetual “June gloom” as Californians call it when a massive cloud bank from the Pacific moves inland during early summer and creates a string of “gray days.” Only this gray day is different. The constant bombardment of dust and ash and meteorite rain has turned the ground a sickly ashen gray.
Alex and Deuce travel only a few miles from the bomb shelter when they reach the remains of the once-famous Rock & Road Bike Warehouse in Laguna Niguel. This Pacific Coast Highway retail fixture stood on that spot for over forty years and was generally considered the best bike shop in the area, with over one thousand bicycles of all shapes and sizes in stock plus the lowest prices in south Orange County. They cross the parking lot and pick their way carefully around the fallen cinder blocks and roof sections.
“Over there! Check it out!” Deuce points excitedly, having spotted what’s left of Rock & Road’s recumbent bike display underneath a collapsed, crumbling section of interior drywall. By some small miracle, three of the dozen recumbent bikes on display appear completely undamaged. Each one has one wheel in front for steering and two wheels in back for improved traction and stability. The two-wheel bikes have not been so lucky. Falling cinder blocks and roof sections have destroyed every last one of them, bent their frames, crushed their wheels and exploded their tires.
“Let’s move all this out of the way.” Alex grabs one corner of the drywall and shoves it aside. Then he and Deuce go to work moving debris until they have cleared a path straight to the trikes. They haul them out one by one and push them clear of the fallen structure. Deuce finds a bike chain with a combination lock and a hand pump.
“Man, this is almost too good to be true.” Deuce ties the chain from the back of one bike to the front of the second. “We can tow this one for Mom.” He drops the hand-pump in the saddlebag attached to the back of the lead trike seat and straddles the seat. He sits back and places his feet on the pedals. Then he rides it once around the parking lot, towing the second bike behind. Alex climbs onto the third trike, adjusts the pedals to accommodate his six-foot height and chases after Deuce with youthful glee.
“These will cut our travel time by eighty percent,” says Alex. “We should easily get to th
e lake and back to Mom before dark.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about the ‘easily’ part.” Deuce doubts whether they can accomplish anything easily anymore.
They race the recumbent bikes out of the parking lot and onto Pacific Coast Highway, peddling north past dozens of abandoned, disabled vehicles, kicking up clouds of gray dust. Deuce’s trike is a Terminator, a black-and-blue rig with laser graphics. He and Alex look like two carefree, happy teenagers. Despite everything that has happened, they suddenly find themselves with a decent means of transportation and an open road ahead of them.
Just days ago, Pacific Coast Highway was one of the most scenic roads in America. Now it is a deadly gray graveyard of crushed vehicles and downed trees covered in gray ash.
They ride for nearly two hours without seeing a living thing. The rolling hills along that section of Pacific Coast Highway are usually teaming with wild rabbits, lizards, snakes and prairie dogs. Now there are no signs of life.
They reach one stretch where the southbound lanes of PCH have been washed away by the rising Pacific Ocean, and where several boats have been overturned, bobbing up and down like buoys. Alex makes a mental note of it for their return trip. They will have to cross over to the northbound lanes for a mile or so on the way back home to avoid the encroaching surf.
They ride past once-proud multimillion-dollar homes along the bluffs facing out toward the Pacific like pastel-colored monolithic sentinels. They have all been reduced to scrap heaps full of broken glass, wood beams, Spanish-style Nevada clay roof tiles and pulverized stucco.
Alex and Deuce hear a man screaming before they see him. The man emerges suddenly at the bottom of a steep concrete staircase leading up to one of the more grandiose beach-facing McMansions. He stands there with his hands covering his face wailing in a way that Alex has never heard any human wail before. It is guttural, subhuman, gut-wrenching.
“Look, Dad, another survivor!”
He and Alex stop about a hundred feet away from the tall, thin, gaunt, white-haired gentleman who is now facing up the stairs staring at what’s left of his home.
RUNAWAY MOON Page 8
