Tsunami: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller

by Crawford Kilian

  *

  “You’re not going in there,” Kirstie said. “It’s insane.”

  Don shook his head. “They were ready to start shooting. Just getting them to talk is an achievement.”

  “Those buggers will just lock you up and hold you for ransom. Or shoot you just to prove they mean business. Don, you can’t go.”

  “I know it’s dangerous, but it’s the best chance we’ve got.” He paused. “And I’m not going to let those people chase us off. It’s as simple as that.”

  “You bloody, bloody egomaniac. You’re as bad as Geordie.”

  “You know, I wish to God he could come with us. He’d end up with their oil as well as the tanker.”

  She kissed him. “Why don’t you bog off, then, if you’re so eager?”

  *

  The Monterey waterfront reminded Don of Hunter’s Point on the day after the waves: a jumble of rocks, timber and debris, piled into a dike up to three metres high. Cannery Row was in ruins: oil floated in thick brownish-black clots on the water and coated the dike as well. The stink was foul.

  About where the old wharf had been, two black soldiers stood on the top of the dike. One of them waved; Don waved back and steered his Zodiac towards them. They clambered down the face of the dike, slipping on the greasy logs and boulders, and moored the Zodiac. Don stepped out and followed the soldiers over the rubble, through the wreckage zone, and up into the streets of Monterey.

  “Something the matter?” one of them asked.

  Don was wiping his face with a handkerchief. “I’m getting over snow blindness. Makes my eyes water.”

  “Man, that’s bad shit. I had some of that once. Like gettin’ chili sauce in your eyes.”

  They said nothing more. Blinking and squinting behind his sunglasses, Don looked around at the remains of Monterey. The earthquake had left many new buildings collapsed, while some of the older adobes had come through almost undamaged. He saw no civilians, only a handful of soldiers patrolling the deserted streets. The stink of oil mixed here with the sharp, fresh smell of burned wood.

  The city hall had lost its plate-glass windows, and a sentry stood in the doorway. He stepped aside; Don and his escort walked over broken glass and through the empty doorframe. Soldiers sat in the lobby, playing poker for cigarettes. They glanced incuriously at Don. His escort guided him up a flight of stairs to an office facing south across a dead lawn.

  Two men sat before the windows of the office, dark outlines against the glare.

  “Have a seat,” said one of them. Don blinked and squinted while his eyes adjusted. The man who had spoken was a bearded white man. He wore a wrinkled white cotton shirt, beige chinos and desert boots. He was self-consciously slumped back into his chair, as if trying to show himself relaxed and uninterested. His hands curled around the ends of his chair’s armrests, and his face was immobile. His eyes were narrowed to unreadable slits.

  The black man in the other chair wore crisply pressed fatigues with gold eagles on the collar. His fingers were steepled in front of his lips; his deep-set eyes studied Don, inquisitive and calculating. This is the strong one, Don thought. The other guy is ready to snap.

  “You’re Donald Kennard? I’m Robert Anthony Allison. This is Colonel Mercer. Let’s cut the horse-trading bullshit and get down to it. What’s your bottom-line offer?”

  Don was not surprised by Allison’s abruptness. “Ten per cent of all the oil and gas we take out of the tanker. You can collect your first instalment day after tomorrow.” Mercer looked surprised and a little impressed. Allison only frowned and shook his head.

  “We need enough fuel to sustain a hundred thousand people for as long as possible.”

  “Okay, you’ve got a hundred thousand people? We’ve got three million. The Sitka’s got about four hundred thousand tonnes of fuel left in her tanks. Our share will carry us for four or five months. Ten per cent ought to carry you easily for a year, maybe two.”

  “Mr. Kennard, I said for as long as possible. Our share will be fifty per cent. That gives us five years, maybe longer, by your calculations.”

  “Look, you won’t need that much fuel. In four to six months we’re switching over to methane, produced by bacteria. By this time next year we plan to be exporting energy all over California.” Don saw Mercer’s eyes widen. “We’ve got genetic engineers working on it. We need the Sitka’s fuel to buy time to develop the methane.”

  “For Christ’s sake, how fucking dumb do you think I am? How the hell do I know you’re gonna have methane or alcohol or vanilla ice cream? I know this: that tanker’s got fuel, and I want all I can get. All right, you people have the equipment and the know-how. But we’ve got guns that can turn you into scrap iron on the bottom of the bay. Fifty per cent of the tanker’s cargo goes to us, off the top. You can have whatever’s left.”

  Don thought for a moment. “If I agree to those terms, thousands of people in San Francisco will die. I’ll go to fifteen per cent, delivered concurrently with our own shipments. Nothing more.”

  “Then you have no deal, my friend.” Allison stood up. “You’ll be escorted back to your boat. I expect your ship to be out of the bay before sunset. If it’s not, we’ll sink it.”

  “Uh, just a minute,” Mercer said. “Mr. Kennard, would you mind stepping outside for a minute? I need to talk something over with Mr. Allison.”

  “Sure.”

  The dim corridor was a relief after the glare in the office. Don took off his glasses and wiped his eyes; they hurt again. He was distantly aware of taking quick, impatient steps down the moldy, half-rotten carpeting. How had such jerks ended up running the lives of a hundred thousand people? Neither one would qualify for a neighbourhood committee in the Bay Area, but here they had all the weapons of a major army post, and the manpower to use it.

  Mercer at least seemed interested in Don’s offer. He must realize that it was fifteen per cent or nothing. If Mercer could only be made to see that he’d get nowhere with Allison —

  “Mr. Kennard? Like to come back in, please?” Mercer called.

  Don paced into the office and sat down. Allison was slumped even deeper in his armchair, his chin on his chest.

  “Colonel Mercer’s suggested an alternative, Mr. Kennard. For the sake of fairness I’m willing to consider it, and at least see your reaction to it. A sixty-forty split, in your favour, divided as you bring the oil up. That seems pretty reasonable to me.”

  Don listened to Allison and wished he could see the man’s face more clearly. The voice was thick, monotone.

  “It sounds like a step in the right direction,” Don answered slowly. “But the proportions are still wrong. We need the fuel to buy time to develop the methane. That’ll benefit all of us. What do you think you’ll use after all the tanker’s fuel is gone?” He kept his eyes on Allison but was aware of Mercer’s gaze, steady and unblinking. “I gave you a no-bullshit offer, fifteen per cent, and that’s as high as I can go. Now, that’s sixty thousand tonnes of real fuel. All this fifty-fifty, sixty-forty crap is fifty per cent of nothing, forty per cent of nothing. Without us, there’s no way you can salvage that fuel. Can you understand that, Mr. Allison?”

  Allison’s face contorted; suddenly he grabbed Don’s shirt and yanked him to his feet.

  “Schmuck! Think you can fuck me around? Nobody talks to me like that, nobody!” His breath was sour in Don’s face; his eyes were wide now.

  “Sixty thousand tonnes, Mr. Allison.” He kept his voice level. It was Mercer he was speaking to.

  Allison slapped Don across the face, knocking his glasses off. Don winced, more at the stab of light than the slap, and fought against the urge to strike back. Half-blind and unarmed, he would win nothing in a fight. But Mercer would have to read him correctly, as he must already have read Allison.

  “Sixty thousand — ”

  Allison shoved him backward, and he toppled over with his chair. Before he could move, Allison kicked him in the belly, then in the head.

  “
Asshole,” Allison said. Then he looked at Mercer: “Haul him out of here and shoot his fucking brains out.”

  “Hey, hold on. Let’s just put him back in his boat, all right? We kill him, we don’t know what we’re getting into, you know? We got enough trouble.”

  Allison tucked in his shirt with trembling hands. “Nobody treats me like that, Odell. Nobody. Now, get this cocksucker downstairs and see that he’s shot. Do you understand me?” he added shrilly.

  “Yeah, yeah, awright.” Shrugging, Mercer went to the door and bellowed for guards. Three soldiers hustled up from the lobby. Mercer helped them carry Don downstairs.

  “Park this dude in the basement for a while,” Mercer muttered to his men as they lurched downstairs. “In the broom closet, with the door locked.”

  As they crossed the lobby, a soldier ran in past the sentry.

  “I got an urgent personal message for Mr. Allison, Colonel. Is he here?”

  “Upstairs,” Mercer answered. “Room two-oh-seven.” He saw that Don was securely locked away, then went slowly back up the stairs. He got to the lobby just in time to see Allison running through the door, across the lawn to where his red Mercedes 450 SL was parked. By the time Mercer got outside, the car was gone. He went back inside and found the messenger.

  “Awright, what was that all about?”

  “Uh, Mrs. Allison is dead, sir. Looks like she took an overdose of somethin’. That Mexican housekeeper found her.”

  “Oh shit, and that crazy fucker’s gone off by himself. Okay, gimme a detail of six men out front, right now!” Mercer roared at the cardplayers across the lobby. “And get that goddamn truck out here, the deuce and a half!”

  *

  Allison drove fast, windows rolled up against the stink of Monterey. A glass bottle exploded across the hood; he scarcely noticed, except to pat his chest for his shoulder holster. It wasn’t there — he’d forgotten to put it on when they’d left the ranch. No wonder, with everything happening at once. The earthquake, Ted, Sarah, the doctor, then these turkeys in the bay, and now Shauna —

  It was a lie, that was for sure. She was sick as hell all right, and she might have overdosed, but she wasn’t dead. He’d pull her out of it. God damn all these fucking people with their demands, dragging him away from his family.

  He felt frightened and angry and exposed. Everything was falling apart, everyone was fading away. He was acting foolishly and impulsively, running around alone and unarmed like this. Get into a normal pattern, start thinking rationally again. By God, when they brought Ted back the bastard was going to suffer before he died. Sarah … please let her be all right, please Bert, find her safe and get her home.

  Allison hurried on over the hill to Carmel. He saw little bands of refugees, trudging north towards whatever shelter they could find in Monterey or Fort Ord. They looked like tramps: dirty, skinny, some of them bleeding, carrying or dragging a few ratty possessions. What the hell had made him think these people were worth doing anything for? Why hadn’t he stayed in Escondido Valley, instead of trying to save this inhabited ruin? He swung hard left onto Carmel Valley Road, remembering the lurch the car had made when the wave ran across the highway on that stormy afternoon long ago.

  Long ago: Shauna’s silver Jag coming the other way, with Shauna living the last few seconds of an ordinary life. She would have been luckier if the waves had caught her in Carmel, if she had suffered only a moment’s surprise instead of this. And if he’d left Sarah with Astrid, and if the Loefflers had stayed in L.A. with Bert and poor dead Dave Marston. Then he and Shauna could have stayed on at the ranch with Hipolito and Lupe, minding their own business. Letting the survivalists rip off the Brotherhood, letting everything go to hell at its own chosen speed, not trying to save things and people not worth saving.

  No. He could sorrow over some things and be angry over others, but he regretted nothing. He’d done his best, and without him things would have been worse.

  The long-dead fields were streaked with the black slime of decayed vegetation. How long had it been since he’d seen a cow or horse grazing, even in those stupid goggles? Stumps and scattered slash were all that remained of the oaks and eucalyptus, fruit trees and pines and cypresses that had adorned the valley.

  The entrance to Escondido Valley was still wooded, by Allison’s order, though most of the trees were dead or dying. Allison slowed and turned. Something banged the right front tire, and the car swerved and stalled. From the tilt of the fender, he realized he had blown the tire. Swearing, he put on his Stetson and got out.

  The tire was ripped to bits. He got the jack and tool kit from the trunk and went to squat beside the wheel. As he did, he saw a small hole in the fender: a bullet hole.

  Allison’s hands began to shake. He reached for the tire iron, his eyes still on the hole. The only sounds were wind in the leafless branches on the hillside, and water splashing down the creek bed on the other side of the road.

  They must be up on the south side of the entrance to the valley: a lot of trees up there, dead brush, plenty of cover and a good view of anyone coming up from the west. He was lucky they hadn’t hit him. If he could get around the car, roll over the shoulder of the road, and get down into the creek bed, he could cross the creek and find cover in the woods on the opposite hillside. Then work his way up to the first checkpoint and safety.

  He flipped off the hubcap and stood up, walked to the rear of the car with the tire iron still in his hand, a weary motorist doing a chore. With the trunk lid concealing him, he threw himself over the edge of the road.

  Stones rattled around him; he went over and over, both hands clenched on the tire iron. The world spun around him and he splashed into a shallow pool. Up, stride, splash, umph.

  He was lying on his back in the pool, wondering if he’d already gotten up or had just imagined it. The tire iron was gone. Never mind. Up, get across the creek. Up. Up.

  He realized that he couldn’t get up. His hands moved; he could lift his head. His back felt cold and wet, but not his legs. His legs felt nothing. When he looked down at them, he saw red clouds and tendrils in the water.

  “I can’t be shot,” he said.

  Two men loomed above him, dark outlines against the bright haze of the summer sky.

  “Mr. Allison,” said the taller of the two. “I’m Frank Burk. Remember me?”

  Allison was sure he’d heard the name before, but couldn’t place it. “Help me up. I think I’m hurt.” The men seemed to be receding; perhaps they couldn’t even hear him. “Give me a hand. Please.”

  “Allison, don’t you know who I am? Frank Burk.”

  “Yeah … yeah. I think we’ve met. Maybe in Monterey? I’ve got a ranch up near there. Please, help me up.”

  “Oh fuck,” said Burk.

  Allison heard another bang, very close. Something hurt in his chest.

  Help me up, he tried to say. I have to bring Sarah home.

  The men were gone. The sky was gone. The water was gone. Then the pain was gone.

  *

  Don came to in chilly darkness, lying on a cold cement floor. His stomach hurt, and when he lifted his head he gasped with pain. It was very quiet.

  He got to his feet and groped around in the darkness. In one corner of the tiny room was a big sink, with faucets that worked; he cupped his hands and drank a little water. Feeling his way across mop handles and buckets and shelves full of dusty boxes, he found nothing that might get him through the locked door, or that might be used as a weapon. When they came for him, his one chance would lie in surprise — a sudden assault, maybe seizing a weapon from whoever opened the door, and then somehow getting out of the building and down to the Zodiac.

  Kirstie had been right again, as she usually was. These guys were insane, and he’d been dumb enough to think they could be bargained with. He missed her. He missed his mother and brother, too, and Geordie. He remembered the old guy saying he hoped to live long enough to see the end of the world. Well, he had a better chance of that
now than his grandson did. Don had a confused, dreamlike memory of Allison ordering Mercer to shoot him. For some reason the moment had been postponed, but surely it would come soon.

  After what seemed like a long time, he heard footsteps coming down a flight of stairs and then down a hallway towards him: a single man, walking briskly. The man rapped twice on the door.

  “Mr. Kennard? It’s Colonel Mercer. I’m lettin’ you out now. Please don’t try anything, okay? Everything’s cool.” Keys jingled, and the door swung open. Without his sunglasses, the dimness of the basement was bright enough to make him squint. He snorted with amusement at his fantasies of a bold escape. With his eyes, he’d have run into the nearest wall.

  “Eyes still hurt, huh? Here’s your shades. You want to come upstairs, have something to eat?”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  They went upstairs, back to the same office, past a deserted lobby. It was mid-afternoon. Mercer drew the curtains across the cracked glass in the windows.

  “I’m really sorry about all that, stickin’ you down in the closet. Allison was all hot to shoot you, so I thought I better just get you out of his sight for a little while.”

  “Thanks. I take it Allison’s calmed down.”

  “Wow.” Mercer laughed silently for a moment and then shook his head. “He’s dead, Mr. Kennard. He got ambushed by a couple of crazy dudes he’d been scared of for months. His wife had just killed herself with methadone. Found out she was dying of cancer, you know? He got the message and took off without a bodyguard, and we followed him. Got there just in time to take care of the crazies, but it was too late for Allison.”

  Don shook his head, but said nothing. Mercer opened a brown paper bag and produced supper: cans of pork and beans, and metallic-tasting beer. Mercer rattled away while they ate, apologizing for the food, complaining about the shortages and morale problems he contended with.

  “Old Allison, he was supposed to be the big leader, you know, the problem-solver. But he kind of turned into the problem, I guess. Just got pushed a little too hard.”

  “So you’re in charge now?”

  “Kind of looks that way. Allison’s got a friend named D’Annunzio, who’s mostly good for shooting people who can’t shoot back. But he’s off chasing around after Allison’s kid, somewhere south of here. Any luck at all, he won’t make it back. If he does, we’ll put him in a cage. Uh, could we maybe talk about that deal?”