Supervolcano: All Fall Down

by Turtledove, Harry

  His son and his new wife snorted on almost identical notes. “Aliens must have grabbed hold of your brain, Dad,” Marshall said. “That can’t be you talking.”

  Colin was the kind who paid off his credit card balance in full every month. Except for his mortgage, he owed nobody in the world a dime—and he’d lived in his house long enough that he wasn’t far from waving bye-bye to the mortgage, too. Even when he was going through his divorce, he’d paid the lawyers on time. It hadn’t been easy, but he’d done it.

  Like a bear bedeviled by mosquitoes, he shook his big, square head. He didn’t want to remember the divorce now, not while he was out having a good time with Kelly. But he couldn’t very well forget it, not when he saw Louise’s face every time he looked at Marshall. How much of life was rolling with the difference between what you wanted and what you got? A hell of a big chunk, for sure.

  Then the food came. He couldn’t imagine a better, or a more delicious, amnesia inducer. No, he couldn’t afford to do this every day, or even very often. All the more reason to enjoy it when he could.

  He’d reached blissfully overloaded nirvana when Kelly touched his hand. “Look outside,” she said softly. “It’s raining.”

  It never rained in June in Southern California. Sure as hell, though, the sidewalk and the street out there glistened with water. Cars went by with their wipers and lights on. He couldn’t forget about his divorce. The supervolcano insisted on being remembered, too.

  II

  In the Year Without a Summer, back two centuries ago now, it had snowed in Maine in June. As a matter of fact, it had snowed in June as far south as Pennsylvania. Rob Ferguson knew more about the Year Without a Summer than he’d ever wanted to find out. The eruption of Mount Tambora, down in what had been the Dutch East Indies and was now Indonesia, touched it off. Mount Tambora had been one hellacious boom—two and a half times as big as Krakatoa, a lifetime later, though without such a good press agent.

  And that hellacious boom was maybe—maybe—five percent the size of the Yellowstone supervolcano eruption. Guilford, Maine, had a park that ran along by the banks of the Piscataquis River. Rob stood in the park on the Fourth of July and watched snow drift down from a sky the color of a flock of dirty sheep.

  “Boy, this is fun,” Justin Nachman said, his breath smoking at every word.

  “Now that you mention it,” Rob answered, “no.”

  “We could bail out,” Justin said, not for the first time. He played lead guitar and did most of the singing for Squirt Frog and the Evolving Tadpoles: he would have been Squirt Frog, had they reckoned things that way. He was short and kind of chunky. He’d worn a perm he described as a Yiddish Afro till the band got stranded in Guilford not long after the eruption. He hadn’t kept it up since, but his hair was still plenty curly.

  “We could, yeah.” Rob’s words showed agreement; his tone didn’t. For a long time, getting into and out of Guilford had been as near impossible as made no difference. Rob had never seen, never dreamt of, so much snow in his life. He was from L.A., so that didn’t prove much. All the guys in the band were Californians; they’d come together at UCSB. But people who’d lived in Guilford their whole lives said the same thing.

  Basically, Maine north and west of I-95 had been left to its own devices by a country that had bigger catastrophes to worry about than too goddamn much snow way the hell off in its far northeastern corner. Food, fuel oil, and gasoline stopped coming in. The power went out—not all at once, but now here, now there, till eventually nobody had any. The nineteenth century came back in a big way.

  And the locals made it through better than Rob would have believed. They cut down a lot of second-growth pines. They shot a lot of moose and white-tailed deer and ducks and geese. Rob had shot a moose himself, with a rifle borrowed from Dick Barber, the proprietor of the Trebor Mansion Inn, the B & B where the band was staying.

  Barber was a longtime Navy man who had a pretty fair arsenal. And Rob, a cop’s kid, knew what to do with guns. Except for occasional target practice with his father, he’d never used what he knew till this winter. Eating something you’d killed yourself, he discovered, made both the hunt and the following meals feel special, almost sanctified.

  This time around, Justin didn’t want to let it alone: “It’s not as bad as it was. We can get to Bangor. The airport’s open. We can go anywhere we want.”

  He had a point . . . of sorts. It didn’t snow all the time any more—only some of the time. When it wasn’t snowing, it got warm enough so the stuff that had already fallen started melting. It had climbed all the way up into the sixties once or twice in June.

  Roads emerged from under snowdrifts. Here and there, food and fuel started coming in, though it wasn’t as if the rest of the country had a whole lot to spare. It seemed to matter less than anyone would have dreamt possible before northern and central Maine got stranded.

  “Sure. We can,” Rob said, again with that mismatch between tone and voice. “I bet we blow up the band if we do, though.”

  Justin had expressive features. Right now what they expressed was annoyance verging on disgust. “Biff will come along if the rest of us decide to go back to civilization,” he said.

  “Don’t bet anything you can’t afford to lose,” Rob said. Biff Thorvald played rhythm guitar. He was also the guy in the band who trolled hardest for girls. They all did some of it. What the hell was the point of playing in a band if it wasn’t to help you get laid? But Biff took it further than Justin or Rob or Charlie Storer, the drummer. The phrase hard-on with legs hadn’t been coined with him in mind, but it might as well have been.

  Justin still looked annoyed. “He’s not that serious about Sarah or Cindy or whatever her name is.”

  “Bullshit he’s not,” Rob retorted. Cindy—he thought that was her name—was a waitress at Caleb’s Kitchen, on Water Street. If Rob turned his head, and if the snow eased up a little, he could see the diner from where he stood. It was tolerable for breakfast, but hadn’t been much for lunch or dinner till they put moose stew and venisonburgers on the menu. Whatever her name was, Biff was all head over heels for her, and she was just as crazy about him.

  “Oh, man!” Justin waved in frustration at the trees on the far bank of the Piscataquis. The ones that weren’t pines were mostly bare-branched. All the late frosts and snowfalls had screwed their leaf-growing to the wall. Rob wondered if they’d die. This was a town park, so nobody’d chopped them down over the winter. But if they were nothing but firewood waiting to happen . . . Justin went on, “This is Nowhere with a capital N.”

  “Uh-huh.” Rob admitted what he couldn’t very well deny. But he also said, “I kinda like it, y’know?”

  The look Justin gave him had Et tu, Brute? written all over it. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said.

  “Nope.” Rob shook his head. “Right after we got stranded, I would’ve kissed a pig for a plane ticket to, well, anywhere. But it grows on me, honest to God it does.”

  “Like a wart.” Justin was not a happy camper.

  “Look, dude, if you just gotta go, then you gotta go, and that’s all there is to it,” Rob said. “We’ll be sorry and we’ll miss you and all that good shit, but we won’t hate you or anything. The band’s not worth squat if the only reason you’re in it is you think you have to stay in it. If you leave, well, hell, we had a better run than most outfits do. We even made a living at it for a while.”

  “Up from obscurity,” Justin muttered.

  “Most outfits never make it that far,” Rob said. “They don’t call ’em garage bands by accident. The drummer’s loud and crappy and annoys the neighbors, and the guys say fuck it and get on with their lives. Coming as far as we have, we beat the odds.”

  “We got all the way up to cult band,” Justin said.

  He didn’t mean it in any good way, but Rob nodded even so. “We sure d
id, and it paid the bills. What’s wrong with that? I mean, would you rather play gigs or sit in a cubicle next to Dilbert and stare at a monitor all day?”

  Justin flinched. He might have been stuck in a lab, not a cubicle—he was an escaped biologist. But one of the reasons you got into a band was so you wouldn’t get trapped in a nine-to-five. Of course, you could get trapped in a band, too. “Up from obscurity,” he repeated. “And then down to obscurity again.”

  That was how it went. It wasn’t so exact as calculating where a missile that went up on this course at that angle with the other velocity would come down, but it came close. Nobody’d ever heard of you. Then people did hear about you, and you were as hot as you ever got. Then they started forgetting about you and looking for something new. But if enough people got to like you while you were It, you could still make a living on the afterglow.

  Like really powerful missiles, a few bands went into orbit and never did come back to earth. Squirt Frog and the Evolving Tadpoles never would have been one of those; it was too quirky, and probably too smart for its own good. As long as everybody in the band accepted that, they could have fun anyhow.

  Justin sighed now. “I know what it is. That Farrell guy’s got a mojo on you.”

  “Oh, give me a break!” Rob said. “Everything around here would have gone to hell if he hadn’t pitched in.” Jim Farrell was a retired history prof; Dick Barber had helped run his failed campaign for Congress in the last election. The successful Democrat stayed in Washington. He showed no interest in sharing his constituents’ frigid fate. Farrell was still here, and better adapted to the new reality than most younger people. He also had a buglelike baritone that made people—people on this side of I-95, anyhow—take notice of him.

  “He’s, uh, kind of out there.” By the way Justin said it, he was giving Farrell the benefit of the doubt.

  Rob only laughed. “And we’re not?”

  “Not that way.” A big, wet snowflake landed on the end of Justin’s nose. His eyes crossed, trying to focus on it. Then it melted, and they uncrossed again. He let out another sigh. “I guess I’m not going anywhere—for now.”

  “Okay,” Rob said. If Justin waited much longer, winter would clamp down hard on Guilford once more—and on big stretches of the rest of the country, too. Snow in L.A. twice in one season? How crazy was that?

  Crazy as a supervolcano eruption. You never thought it could happen. Then it did, and you had to live with the aftermath . . . if you could.

  * * *

  Vanessa Ferguson checked the time on her cell phone. A quarter past three. She let out a sigh full of theatrical disgust. Part of that was because she had to meet Micah at four. The other part was because, although Camp Constitution had been up and running for almost a year, only little gadgets like cell phones had power here. And sometimes you stood in line for a couple of hours before you got to use the charging station, too.

  She didn’t know how many refugee centers there were, set up just past the edges of the ashfall from the supervolcano. She did know they stretched from Iowa to Louisiana on this side of the eruption, and from Washington State down into California in the west. They all had patriotic-sounding names: Camp Constitution, Camp Independence, Camp Federalist, Camp Liberation, and on and on. Some FEMA flunky back in D.C. probably got a bonus for every fancy moniker he thought up.

  She didn’t think anybody knew how many people remained stuck in these miserable camps. As with deaths from the eruption, she didn’t think anybody could guess to the nearest hundred thousand. Till she ended up here, she’d never imagined there was this much tent canvas in the whole U.S. of A. And if she never saw another MRE for the rest of her life . . . it would mean they were finally running out of them, and then all the refugees would really be in trouble.

  The roof over her head right now was olive-drab canvas. She sprawled on a bunk—next to the top in a stack of five. She had a two-inch-thick foam-rubber pad over the plywood bottom of the bunk. In Camp Constitution, that was luxury.

  And this was a pretty quiet tent. That was luxury, too. The three little brats in the first tent where she’d washed up . . . They couldn’t watch TV. They couldn’t play video games. They couldn’t get on Facebook. So they drove everybody nuts instead. Vanessa’d wanted to rip their little heads off. She didn’t suffer fools or pests gladly. But what you wanted to do and what you could get away with were two different critters, dammit.

  Micah had got her out of there. Of course, everything came with a price. Pretty soon, she’d deliver another payment. Not long after she’d come to this tent, she’d figured she didn’t need to deliver any more. That only proved she’d been naive. Once you let somebody know what bugged you, you left yourself vulnerable to him.

  Who would have dreamt Micah could find kids even more horrible than the ones she’d left behind? Well, he did it, damn him. These were boys, not girls, which only made them wilder. And there were four of them, not three. Their mother had long since given up trying to keep them under control. They had no father in evidence.

  Just to make matters worse, they were African-American. If Vanessa complained about them through regular channels, she’d look like a racist.

  So, irregularly, she went back to Micah. He raised an eyebrow. He looked surprised. “Is that so?” he said, and he sounded surprised, too, damn him. He was such a dweeb. “How unfortunate for you. I was not aware of the situation.” Another government agency called that kind of thing plausible deniability. Vanessa called it horseshit. She was learning.

  “What can you do about it?” she asked him.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “If they were properly transferred into that residence area, I may not be able to do much at all.” Only a bureaucrat who didn’t have to live in one would call a surplus gynormous Army tent a residence area. And only someone who knew damn well he could take care of things if he decided to would deny it that way.

  She’d paid off before, to get away from her first tent. That made picking it up again easier, but left her more disgusted with herself than ever. If Micah had been greedier . . . But he wasn’t, not with any one person. Vanessa was as sure as made no difference that he had plenty of others coming around.

  That African-American mother and her four monsters vanished from the tent as abruptly as they’d appeared in it. Everybody else breathed a sigh of relief. Vanessa breathed a sigh of resignation. Micah had delivered. Now she would have to deliver, too. She kept delivering, every couple of weeks, the way she would have kept up her auto-insurance payments out in the real world.

  “Everything worked out for the best,” Micah told her one afternoon. “I was able to gain the Washington family access to a relocatable unit.”

  Relocatable unit was more bureaucratese, this time for trailer. FEMA trailers had had an evil reputation since Katrina. The ones at Camp Constitution looked as if they’d been working hard at least since the hurricane hit New Orleans. They were the refugee camp’s equivalent of Beverly Hills anyway. Only large families got to stay in them.

  “Yippee skip,” Vanessa had said, in lieu of Hot shit! She would rather have seen all four of the little gangbangers in cells.

  Now she checked the time once more. Three thirty. The minutes just flew by when you were having so much fun. Yeah, right, she thought. She climbed down from her bunk: carefully, so as not to bother the people in the bunks below hers. They were as bored and miserable as she was. What else were places like Camp Constitution but breeding grounds for boredom and misery? She understood where Palestinian terrorists came from much better than she ever could have before the supervolcano erupted.

  Camp Constitution lay somewhere between Muskogee, Oklahoma, and Fort Smith, Arkansas. It should have been up in the nineties, with humidity to match. But the sun shone pale from a sky drained of blue the way a vampire’s victim was drained of pink. It might have been seventy. Then again, it mig
ht not.

  The breeze came out of the west. Vanessa slipped on a surgical mask. All kinds of volcanic ash and dust remained in the air, especially when the wind blew from that quarter. Coughing was one of the characteristic sounds of the camp. You didn’t hear it as much now as you had when the miserable place first opened, though. Most of the people who’d had lung troubles when they got here were already dead.

  That breeze also brought the reek of row upon row of outhouses. There were showers—cold showers. There were spigots where you could fill bottles and jugs and whatever else you happened to have with potable water. And that was about the extent of the running water in these parts. A sewage system there was not.

  People in ugly, ill-fitting clothes tramped the camp’s dusty, unpaved avenues. Vanessa knew she was one of them, knew it and hated it. Like everybody else here, she’d arrived with only what she had on her back. Everything else came from donations. She’d never seen—she’d never worn—so much polyester in so many garish colors in her life.

  A real building, the only one in the camp, housed the FEMA functionaries who ran the place. They had electricity and plumbing and high-speed Internet access and all the other benefits of Western civilization. They were workers, after all, not refugees. They were there to help—if they happened to feel like it.

  A long line of people snaked out the front door and down the street. Every one of them wanted something. Some would get it: the deserving, the persistent, or, sometimes, just the attractive.

  Vanessa’s mouth twisted. On her, her father’s strong, blunt features looked good. She sometimes—these days, more and more often—wished they didn’t. But all you could do was play the cards you had. She’d used her looks to her advantage before. Like most nice-looking people, she’d sometimes done it without even noticing. In a way, she was still doing it. In a way . . .