Footprints of Thunder

by James F. David

  Bill agreed to get him whatever he needed.

  “Hot damn,” Phil laughed, “some of it’s classified.”

  Modern communication systems are made up of radio, television, phone, and computer networks. To keep this system functioning, there must be transmission and reception facilities, copper cables, fiber optic lines, broadcast towers, dish antennae, translators, boosters, switching stations, and satellites. Lose a part of this system, and backup systems automatically come on-line. Lose the backup systems and computers will automatically reroute signals. Lose those routes and the system fails.

  Like everything else about the effect, the losses were uneven. Some satellites were lost, and others lost their ground communication facilities. Other ground stations reestablished contact where possible. Underground transmission lines were left intact, as were transatlantic and transpacific cables. Cities untouched by the effect kept local phone, TV, and radio, and some long-distance, while those in or near cities sliced by the effect were hardest hit. Some lost everything, others kept some local radio or TV. Military bases were similar but reestablished satellite communication sooner, then commandeered civilian lines, further snarling civilian communication.

  As a result some sat riveted to TVs witnessing the bizarre unfold before them, while others only heard rumors and half truths. Still others in rural pockets continued their lives completely unaware of the drama unfolding across the face of the planet.

  Nick Paulson’s encounter with the masturbator left him wary of any more of Elizabeth’s prognosticators. Additional psychics, religious fanatics, and nuts were still being rounded up, but Nick delegated the interviewing to the CIA. Instead, Nick combed the PresNet.

  Nick used the directory to get a rough map of which parts of the network were lost. The northeastern part of the country was mostly off-line, although a terminal at the University of Delaware and one in New Hampshire were listed. The Chicago area was well represented as were the states surrounding Illinois. The southeast was another near-total loss. There was nothing from Georgia, Mississippi, and Louisiana, and precious little from the rest of the South. There were three terminals listed from Florida State University but none from the University of Miami. There were few advisors in the far West except for California, but functioning terminals were listed in Houston, Galveston, Reno, Cheyenne, and several in the Southern California basin. Only Seattle was represented in the northwest, with terminals at the University of Washington and Boeing. Nothing was showing for Alaska, Puerto Rico, or Guam. Three stations were listed as on-line in Hawaii. After his survey Nick estimated only a third of the network was still functioning.

  The reports on PresNet described the kinds of impossible topographical changes Nick heard described on the radio. One posted message was from a scientist named Robert Cory in Houston, who was bounced off the highway when his car was hit by a pressure wave. Back on the road, he rounded a curve to find a red hot lava field. Fires were spreading along the highway. Another report came from a Mavis Farnsworth in Minneapolis, who described a loud whooshing sound in the middle of the night, and opened her drapes to find herself staring at a jungle. The network was filled with these kinds of reports, but Nick was frustrated with them. They were too descriptive and not analytical. The PresNet advisors were acting like tourists, not scientists.

  Nick sent an all-points message requesting direct analysis of any topographical changes the associates had access to. He also asked for continued reports on “unusual events,” but to look for common denominators. Nick hoped this would begin to focus the work of the network scientists. At first he had been tempted to ask for reports on dinosaurs or other prehistoric life-forms, but he knew if he suggested what to look for, that would limit the observations.

  The phone beeped several times before Nick picked it up. A guard announced an insistent air force colonel named Conrad was at the gate with a psychologist, and a sergeant, claiming they had vital information. Nick remembered that the college kid from Elizabeth’s list was to be accompanied by a psychologist and a colonel. Frustrated by the lack of information on the PresNet, he agreed to see them but swore he’d personally castrate any of them that started masturbating.

  That wasn’t necessary. The men were all-business. None of them was wearing a uniform, but the colonel’s military bearing and demeanor set him apart instantly. The other two seemed to wear rumpled casual clothes, although on closer inspection it appeared the taller man wore rumpled clothes, and the shorter Asian was a rumpled man in well-pressed clothes.

  The colonel took charge and ordered Sergeant Yamamoto to set up their computer equipment. The sergeant, protesting, looked lustfully at Nick’s console, so Nick invited the sergeant to help himself. After brief introductions, the colonel said abruptly. “I think we know what’s happened.”

  Nick’s hopes sank. The colonel was as confident as the psychics, and experience told Nick that no one that confident was ever right. His explanation made a good story though. A psychotic college student, hostages in a cave, the mountain in the middle of the freeway, and then the search of Kenny’s room.

  As Bill described what they had collected, Terry handed examples of articles and showed sections of books to Nick. Dr. Paulson showed none of the skepticism Terry had expected.

  “You think these events have something to do with what happened?” Nick asked.

  “Kenny Randall certainly did and he worked out a model… Phil, you ready?” Colonel Conrad asked.

  “Yeah, here we go. Remember though, this thing’s a piece of crap and I had nothing to do with the programming. The colonel here won’t even let me clean it up.” Phil shook his head and punched a key.

  As they presented it, Nick’s own ideas were confirmed and expanded. Yet when they were finished he was left wanting to know more.

  “There must be something else. Weren’t there equations or notes somewhere?”

  Colonel Conrad described the rest of the materials and then named a Dr. Piltcher, a Dr. Coombs, and someone named Phat as colleagues of Kenny’s. He also spoke of a manuscript from a Babylonian prophet named Zorastrus, which wasn’t among Kenny’s things. Colonel Conrad’s people were already searching for Kenny’s friends, so Nick made a mental note to get a copy of the manuscript. It was a long shot, but no more impossible than what was happening in the streets. Nick asked a guard to bring the rest of Kenny Randall’s possessions. He was going to take this to the Security Council, and if he was going to convince them, he first needed to convince himself.

  “Okay, let’s start with the computer programs. Show me everything,” he said.

  Nick found out how efficient government could be when a young marine delivered a cardboard box containing the complete known works of Zorastrus, the Prophet of Babylon. There were copies in multiple languages. Selecting the English copies, they scanned them. Colonel Conrad found what they were looking for.

  “Here, in this one called the Apocrypha of Zorastrus. He writes about things falling from the sky: water, fish, rocks, and a whole tree. There’s one about a strange animal appearing. He describes it as a huge beast that came walking on two legs and ate whole cattle.”

  “Is this in the program?” Nick asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Colonel Conrad said. “The dates on most of this stuff are too vague to work in the program. Here, let’s cheek it against the list.” While Phil, Terry, and Colonel Conrad worked with the program, Nick dug out a copy of the Zo-rastrus text in a German translation. Nick found Zorastrus had done more than just list the strange events, he had tried to explain them. His predictions were specific and described events much like they had experienced. Zorastrus believed the things that fell from the sky came from the past, and that they were the debris of a collision of eras. As Nick read, his respect for this prophet grew. Nick could find no specific predicted date, but it didn’t matter. There was plenty of proof the ancient seer had been right. Now if only Nick could convince the Security Council.

  35. Ellen and Angie

>   The Eilean Mor light went out ten days before Christmas. When the provision ship reached her on the 26th, the three lighthouse men were missing. All was in good order; the wicks were trimmed, the lanterns filled with oil, and the beds mode. Three good men, gone to God only-knows where.

  —David Rose, Scotland, 1900

  Carlton, Oregon

  PostQuilt: Monday, 3:11 P.M. PST

  Ellen’s back and bottom ached. Looking for a way into Portland, she’d been bumping down back roads filling with people trying to find some way around the mountain on I-5. Most of them were tourists trying to find a way home to the city or north of it. Mixed in were other travelers and rubberneckers, going to see what had happened, and more had happened than Ellen had realized.

  She had spent several fruitless hours trying to phone friends in or near Portland, ones who could check on her son, but the phone system was a mess. Many of the interstate long-distance lines were still accessible, but the limited intrastate made calls to Portland impossible. Ellen’s frustration at that, combined with her anger at Terry, reached critical mass late that night. She couldn’t just sit in a motel doing nothing, and since Terry wouldn’t help find their son, she decided to do it herself. Loyally, Angie had started packing her own suitcase as soon as she realized what Ellen was up to. Ellen protested, but only politely; privately she was relieved to have Angie’s company.

  They were now about ten miles southeast of Portland near a wide spot in the road called Carlton. The traffic on the road was once again at a standstill. They waited, listening to the CB and switching channels, trying to pick up someone at the head of the line. They finally picked up a woman who knew something, and from the sound of her voice she was angry.

  “There’s some smart ass cop up here who’s barricaded the highway. He says there’s no place to go. Says the town’s already full of people and there’s no road on the other side. Over to you, Hot Rod.”

  Angie flipped off the radio.

  “Looks like we walk from here. Maybe this cop knows what’s going on.”

  They pulled the Jeep to one side, locked it up, then started walking through the parked cars. There weren’t as many cars here as on I-5. But because the road was two lane, and the cars were backed up only on the right side, the hike was longer. Angie and Ellen hiked around curves and over hills listening to other people talking. Many were walking forward too, but some had unpacked picnics, lawn chairs, or blankets. Kids ran around the cars playing tag.

  Angie had suggested cutting cross-country; the Willamette valley was thick with farms, and she reasoned they might be able to use the four-by-four to cross them. But on this side of the city there were fewer farms, and lots of forest. There must be logging roads or fire district roads, Ellen thought, but they had no idea how to find them.

  At last they came to the barricade, four sawhorses with two-by-fours stretched across them, with a hand-lettered sign reading:

  ROAD CLOSED

  Nearby, two uniformed men stood. One was surrounded by a mob of people. It was clear he was in charge. The mob around him was a mixture of the angry, the frustrated, and the curious. The cop kept repeating, “One at a time, one at a time.”

  Angie gave Ellen a look that said “I’ll take care of this” and then plowed into the crowd and struck a provocative pose near the cop.

  “Hey, darlin’, why is the road blocked? she drawled loudly.

  The cop turned, looking angry until Angle’s voluptuous figure softened his response.

  “Listen,” he began, then he spread his voice to cover the crowd, “listen to me, everyone.” The crowd of people quieted. Looking at Angie he said, “The road is blocked because there is no place for you to go. The road continues on the other side of town for only a mile and then it ends. There are cars and trucks abandoned all over that road. There is no room in town left for you to park and no place to stay. You can walk down the road if you don’t believe me.”

  Disappointed voices rang out; “But we’ve got to get to Portland,” moaned someone from the back of the crowd. “I’ve got relatives waiting for me. When’s the road going to be clear?”

  “Everyone here has the same problems,” the officer said. “I can’t clear the road for you. Go take a look for yourself if you don’t believe me.” Then he shook his head and shooed the crowd away.

  Grudgingly the people dispersed and wandered off, telling new arrivals what they just heard.

  Angie sidled up to the cop, looking as sexy as she could after a twenty-hour drive, and Ellen was impressed with how sexy that was. The cop seemed to agree, and it irritated Ellen, but she told herself she was merely annoyed, not jealous.

  “Yes, what can I do for you?” the officer asked while trying not to stare at Angie’s cleavage.

  “My friend here has to get home, officer,” Angie said sadly, nodding repeatedly toward Ellen. “Her son is home all alone and she’s afraid something might have happened to him.” The officer, enthralled with Angie, gave Ellen only a brief glance.

  “There’s nothing I can do!” he said with exhaustion. “The road isn’t just blocked, it’s gone. There used to be houses up there and stores. Bill Brandt, the guy who owns the hardware store, he lives … lived just on the other, side of where the road ends. He had five kids. Where are they? I don’t know! There’s nothing there now but trees.” His tone was a mixture of fear and anger. “Nothing but trees and ferns,” he repeated.

  Ellen had heard stories like this on the CB all the way to Carlton. They still frightened her, but that fear created only a stronger need to find her home and her son. She had no idea when Terry and Bill would get back, and she was still angry with Terry for going in the first place.

  Angie blinked worriedly, stepped closer, and slid her hand through the officer’s arm. “I know it’s been tough on you. Officer … Peters? I’m not asking you to let us through, but maybe you could tell us if there are any other roads into Portland from here? Any other way we could get in to look for her son?”

  The cop’s voice softened as Angle’s charm took effect.

  “I do sympathize,” he said, giving Ellen a quick look and a nod of his head, “but this isn’t just the road that’s gone, it’s everything. Portland isn’t there anymore. Every road we’ve checked just ends.”

  Ellen was tired of being ignored.

  “We’ve been listening to the CB and some people say Portland is there,” she said defensively. “Besides, how do you know the city isn’t there, you can’t see it from here can you?”

  “Ladies, I’m tired of people not believing me, I’ve talked myself blue. I don’t give a damn what you do, just don’t try to bring a car into this town.”

  With that Officer Peters walked off a short distance and began to attract another crowd of people as Ellen felt hope leave with him. They were so near, yet miles from her home. The Jeep might take them closer, but all the fields they had seen were ringed by either forests or fences. If they had to cut their way through with a chain saw and wire cutters it would take days. The only option left was to walk.

  ” ‘Scuse me, ladies.”

  Ellen turned to see the other officer staring at Angie, or more precisely at Angle’s cleavage. Tall and thin, he had a small head, and his nose and chin poked out too far. He wore a pair of glasses with one of those straps basketball players wear, to keep them from falling off. Other generations would have called the man geek, nerd, queer, square. He seemed to be all of those and more.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear your situation and I might just be able to offer you some assistance. I happen to know a group of off-road recreational enthusiasts who are planning a little excursion into the Portland area. I’m sure they would be willing to help you once I explain your situation.”

  Ellen didn’t know what to make of the offer. The name tag on the uniform said STANLEY COOPER and the look in his eyes suggested sincerity. Still, the man seemed decidedly strange and made Ellen uncomfortable. Angie was looking him over, too. Now he wasn’t star
ing at Angie’s cleavage, but he was sneaking occasional glances.

  “Could this excursion take us into southeast Portland?” Ellen asked.

  “If it’s there.”

  Apparently Angie had made up her mind and accepted for both women as she slipped her arm through the cop’s and leaned into him so that her breasts were pressed firmly against his arm.

  “Could you really help us?” she asked in her little girl voice. “We’d feel so much safer if you could take us, Stanley.”

  “Call me Coop.”

  “Okay, Coop. Coop, that’s cute,” Angie giggled. Ellen didn’t know whether to laugh or throw up.

  “Coop, we can’t thank you enough,” Angie said squeezing his arm in her hands and giving him a peck on the cheek as Ellen nearly gagged.

  Coop used a police car to lead Angie’s Jeep up the left side of the road, getting them closer to town. The women ended up spending the night in the Jeep. It was uncomfortable and they slept fitfully. Ellen spent the night alternating between worry about her son and daughter and anger at her husband. Mostly she wondered about her son; she knew where her husband was and knew he was checking on their daughter, but she had no idea where her son was or what had happened to him.

  36. Jaws

  I deployed 3000 reinforcements across the Yangtze River to defend the bridge and the town. The next morning only a small pocket of 100 could be found. The sentries stationed on the bridge reported no crossings during the night, and when we were overrun the Japanese claimed no contact with my troops. Perhaps my vanished army could have saved Nanking from the rape that followed.

  —Colonel Li fu Sien, December 1937

  Forest, former site of Portland, Oregon

  PostQuilt: Monday, 4:10 P.M. PST