NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
FOOTPRINTS OF THUNDER
Copyright © 1995 by James F. David
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Cover art by Paul Stinson
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC 175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010
www.tor.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
ISBN 0-812-52402-0 EAN 978-0-812-52402-4
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 95-21887
First edition: October 1995 First mass market edition: July 1997
Printed in the United States of America
0 9 8 7 6 5 4
Contents
Acknowledgments
Dramatis Personae
Prologue: Corn Fall
PreQuilt
1. Residence Hall
2. The Entrepreneur
3. Gun In The Dark
4. Offshore
5. Hostages
6. Kid With A Gun
7. Chicken Little Summer
8. Cave Crisis
Time Quilt
9. Mariel Weatherby
10. The Group
11. Pig Pile
12. Road Games
13. Flight Delay
14. Tidal Wave
15. Coop
PostQuilt
16. The President
17. Science Advisor
18. The Meadow
19. Security Council
20. Into The Forest
21. Iguanodon
22. Little Ones
23. Mountain Mystery
24. Rogues’ Gallery
25. Cubby and John
26. Streets Of The New World
27. Flowers From The Sky
28. The Brood
29. Life In The Forest
30. Debris
31. Luis
32. Puglisi
33. Hunted
34. Time Waves
35. Ellen and Angie
36. Jaws
37. Sea Monster
38. Friends
39. Black Ripple
40. First Kills
41. Pursuit
42. The President and Gogh
43. Unfinished Business
44. Ocean Ride
45. Contribution
46. Operation Mend
47. Death For Dinner
48. Big Bird
49. Prehistoric Shore
50. Rescue
51. The Mean Bird
52. Tropical Snow
53. Modern Death
54. The Den
55. Pat and Patty
56. Mariel From The Window
57. Moonscape
58. The Guys
59. The Toolmaker
60. Guard Duty
61. Helicopter
62. Captured
63. Oscillations
64. Landfall
65. Magic Mountain
66. Noah’s Raven
67. Out Of The Pit
68. Choices
The New World
69. Beach House
70. The New Country
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank everyone who encouraged or tolerated me during this project. Thanks to Mark, who gave me the initial push to get started, Carol McCleary for seeing the potential, Bob Gleason and Greg Cox for many good suggestions and for pushing me to a new level, and to my wife, Gale, for hours of reading and rereading.
Abby, Katie, and Bethany—this is why Dad sat at the computer all those hours.
Dramatis Personae
OREGON
Kenny Randall—Student at Oregon Institute of Technology, and a member of the group.
Dr. George Coombs—Former professor of anthropology, now a chiropractor.
Dr. Chester Piltcher—Professor of system science at Oregon Institute of Technology, and the leader of the group.
Phar Nyang—A student at Oregon Institute of Technology, computer programmer, and a member of the group.
Mrs. Wayne—Member of the group and New Age believer who communicates with a spirit guide by the name of Shontel.
Petra Zalewski—Student at Oregon Institute of Technology, and a member of the group.
Colter Swenson—Student at Southern Oregon State College, and a member of the group.
Ernie Powell—Friend of Mrs. Wayne, and a member of the group.
Robin Kyle—Deputy sheriff, Jackson County Sheriffs Department.
Jill Randall—Kenny Randall’s sister, and tour guide at the Oregon Caves.
Robert Jenkins—FBI Special Agent.
Shirley, Jay, and Kimberly—Rangers at the Oregon Caves National Monument.
Bill Conrad—Colonel in the U.S. Air Force.
Angie Conrad—Wife of Bill.
Dr. Terry Roberts—Psychologist.
Ellen Roberts—Wife of Terry.
John Roberts—Son of Terry and Ellen.
Ripman and Cubby—Friends of John.
Carl, Bobby, Kishton, Butler, and Miller—Motorcyclists from Carlton, Oregon.
Vince Peters—Chief of Police, Carlton, Oregon.
Stanley “Coop” Cooper—Reserve officer, Carlton, Oregon.
Rita Watkins—Stranded motorist.
Chrissy Watkins—Rita’s daughter.
Matt Watkins—Rita’s son.
FLORIDA
Ron Tubman—Owner and captain of the deep-water sailboat Entrepreneur.
Carmen Perez-Tubman—Wife of Ron Tubman.
Rosa Perez—Carmen’s daughter.
Chris Tubman—Ron’s son.
NEW YORK
Mariel Weatherby—Resident of apartment bordering the New York time quilt.
Luis Ibarra—Resident of apartment bordering the New York time quilt.
Melinda Ibarra—Wife of Luis.
Gene Diamond—Host of radio show Night Talk.
HAWAII
Emmett Puglisi—Assistant professor of astrophysics, University of Hawaii.
Carrollee Chen-Slater—Assistant professor of botany, University of Hawaii.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Elizabeth Hawthorne—White House chief of staff.
Scott McIntyre—President of the United States.
Dr. Nick Paulson—Science advisor to the President.
Dr. Arnold Gogh—Former science advisor to the President.
Samuel Cannon—Director of the CIA.
Phil Yamamoto—Sergeant, U.S. Air Force.
Natalie Matsuda—Secretary of Defense.
Prologue: Corn Fall
The pickup sped through the forest past the marker indicating the border of the Indian Reservation. Unnoticed by the passengers, the forest changed. Hardy pines replaced the water-loving firs, the mountains melted into hills, and the highway convolutions became mere curves. The truck was moving down the eastern slope of the Cascades into the rain shadow that was the high desert of eastern Oregon.
It was opening day of deer season, at least it would be at daybreak, and the pickup was loaded with essentials. In the back were a tent, three sleeping bags, fishing rods and tackle, two cast-iron frying pans, a propane lantern, three 30.06 rifles, and two cases of beer. In the cab three eager college students kept themselves awake by talking sports and sex. Few cars were on the road,
and only an occasional sign advertising the reservation resort, Kah-Nee-Tah.
It was nearly 2:00 A.M. when the pickup pulled itself free from the forest and into the expanse of the plains. The passengers fell silent, their eyes no longer confined by the evergreen walls. They were forest dwellers who found thick stands of evergreens, mountains, and waterfalls commonplace, so the browns, grays, and muted greens of the arid plains were seductive. There were no clouds in the sky, and when the passengers tired of wide open plains, they savored the wide open sky. To enhance its splendor, they turned off the lights of the pickup, and the vehicle moved across the plain with only the moon to light its way. At a wide spot in the road, it stopped, and two of the passengers got out, stretching their legs, arching their backs, and staring at the sky. The driver lay down on the seat of the cab, stretching his legs out the driver’s door and his arms out the other.
After a catlike stretch, he moved to the doorway of the cab and leaned across the top of the pickup, looking across the desert. The cool autumn air sent goose bumps up his arms, invigorating him and clearing his brain. Then something bounced off the top of the cab in front of his face. It was a dried piece of corn.
“All right, who’s the wise guy?”
The other two were staring at him blankly when another piece of corn landed on the ground between them. Then another, and another, joined the first. They looked up to see where it came from, but there was nothing to see but stars. More corn fell, sprinkling the ground and people, stinging them where it hit. When the corn began to fall harder, they climbed into the safety of the pickup. Still the corn fell in torrents, sounding like hail as it pounded the vehicle.
The passengers stared out the windshield as the ground quickly covered itself with the brownish yellow kernels. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the corn fall stopped.
The young men opened the door tentatively and slowly climbed out. There was still nothing in the sky but stars, but the evidence of the strange shower was all around them. The driver kicked at the corn on the ground and then cleaned it off his pickup to look for damage.
“That’s the strangest damn thing I’ve ever seen,” the driver said. “Where do you think it came from, Jack?”
“How should I know?” Jack replied. “I don’t think they even grow corn around here. Hey, where did Kenny go?” They both looked around, and then called out Kenny’s name.
“I’m back here.” They found Kenny Randall kneeling down behind the pickup. He was dumping a jar of Tang onto the ground.
“What are you doing, man? That’s my Tang!”
Kenny ignored the driver, finished dumping out the powder, and then filled the jar with corn from the ground. He didn’t say much after that, and he wasn’t much fun. Even in camp, he just sat and stared at the jar of com.
Jack got a three-point buck on Saturday and he and Robbie skinned it. Robbie caught half a dozen trout Sunday morning, but Kenny didn’t have much of an appetite. When they broke camp Sunday afternoon Kenny, still absorbed by the corn, said very little all the way back.
PreQuilt
1. Residence Hall
… and there shall come a time when the present shall be joined together with the past…
—Zorastrus, Prophet of Babylon
Oregon Institute of Technology, Klamath Falls, Oregon
PreQuilt: Saturday, 2:00 A.M. PST
Kenny Randall looked doubtfully at the pile of belongings on his bed. They would never fit into his pack. Pulling out his essentials, he finished stuffing his yellow backpack. The gun was last; he wanted it accessible. But its outline showed clearly through the thin yellow nylon. When he wedged the gun on the inside it rubbed against his spine through the pack. Finally he wrapped the weapon loosely in a towel to help hide the deadly shape.
Kenny checked his watch and then sat down at his computer and ran the simulation again. He tried feeding in more of the Zorastrus data, but the outcome was the same. After a dozen runs he gave up. Kenny envied the long dead prophet. He had only predicted what Kenny would have to live through.
He took one last look around his littered dorm room. Textbooks, mostly dealing with industrial management, papers, notebooks, pens and pencils, were in apparent disarray, but Kenny had his own system of organization. One pile was for his computer programming class, the one next to it was for his systems management class, and the pile sticking out from under the bed contained last year’s work. There was another year’s worth of work deeper under the bed. More books and papers were piled on the closet floor, with a seldom-used typewriter.
The computer on Kenny’s desk was surrounded by its own peculiar debris—boxes of discs, disc holders, a mouse and mouse pad, a printer, and stacks of computer paper. Next to the computer was a pile of newspaper clippings. On the shelf above the computer was a rack of books with titles like Stranger Than Fiction, Strange Facts, and The Unexplainable. At the end of the shelf was a jar of dried corn.
There wasn’t anything Kenny particularly valued in the room, but he felt a sense of loss anyway, knowing he would not see any of it again. He checked his pack one more time, to make sure the gun didn’t show, and then he closed and locked the door.
The dorm hall was quiet, and all the doors were shut. The last of the late-nighters had drifted off to bed about half an hour ago. On this Saturday morning no one was likely to stir until nine or ten. It was better this way, Kenny knew. He was weary of talking to people who were deaf to what he had to say, though it was unlikely anyone would talk to him now anyway. He had become genuinely unpopular in the last few months. Ever since his discovery he had tried to tell them, to show them, but they treated him as a joke. For their sake he hoped they were right, but for his sake he was going to do something about it.
An empty elevator was waiting for him, and he left the building without looking back—even though the dorm had been his home for the last three years he had always disliked it. Even the name of the dorm was ridiculous: Residence Hall. One night after a few too many beers, he, Jack, and Robbie had printed out official-looking signs on Kenny’s computer and posted them around the building. RESIDENCE HALL FLOOR, one said, RESIDENCE HALL HALL, another said. Even RESIDENCE HALL WALL, and RESIDENCE HALL TOILET. It was the kind of thing that was funny when you’re drunk but seemed dumb the next morning. Still, none of the other residents tore the signs down for months.
He found his dark blue Toyota in the parking lot. The odometer had twenty-eight thousand miles on it, but it had rolled over two years ago. The upholstery was shot, and the passenger win’ dow was stuck closed, but the car would not quit. He was briefly apprehensive—in all his careful planning he had never considered the possibility that his ten-year-old Toyota might be the weak link, trapping him with the unbelievers. Now he pumped it twice, relieved when as usual it started the second time.
As he was pulling out of the parking slot, he noticed a yellow bumper sticker on the Escort parked next to him. Written in calligraphy, it read simply Shit Happens. Kenny forced a nervous laugh. “You got that right,” he said out loud. “You sure got that right.” Then Kenny left the parking lot for the last time.
When he reached Dr. Piltcher’s house, Phat, Colter, and Petra were already there, packing the RV and the van for their trip. Kenny found Dr. Piltcher and Dr. Coombs staring at a computer screen. Kenny could see the simulation he and Phat had developed running on the screen. A well-worn copy of an ancient manuscript lay open next to the computer. It made an odd sight, the ancient and the modern sitting side by side. The two scientists looked up when Kenny came into the study. There were dark bags under their eyes.
“Have you been running the simulation all night?” he asked.
“Yes,” Dr. Piltcher said. “Dr. Coombs and I fed in more of the Zorastrus data. It didn’t make any difference. It’s going to happen.”
“I know,” Kenny said.
There was nothing more to say, so Kenny left the scientists to help the others. While they were packing, Mrs. Wayne arrived with E
rnie Powell in Ernie’s pickup truck, its bed loaded with more supplies. Dr. Piltcher had advised them all to prepare for the worst.
When everything was packed it came time for good-byes. Dr. Coombs shook Kenny’s hand without a word, but Kenny knew Dr. Piltcher would have something to say.
“Won’t you change your mind, Kenny?” Dr. Piltcher asked. “Come with us. We should be together when it happens. I think you need to be with the group.”
Kenny knew Dr. Piltcher’s concern was genuine. Kenny had become introspective as the summer wore on. By the season’s end he rarely participated in the group discussions, and even Phat couldn’t draw him out. Kenny had tried to stay engaged but wasn’t like the others. He couldn’t compartmentalize his life, set aside his fears and live normally. In fact, now his fears were his life. He needed family, not friends. He didn’t understand why, so he said simply, “I need to be with my family.”
Footprints of Thunder Page 1
