The Rift

by Walter Jon Williams

  “It was a miracle that my father survived,” said a man on the radio. Charlie put two plastic bottles of mineral water in another sack, then walked to the counter and gave the man his Visa card. The man looked at it with contempt.

  “Can’t take this,” he said, showing long yellow teeth. “Cash only.” He pointed. “See the sign?”

  “The card’s good, mate,” Charlie said. “It’s platinum.”

  “Ain’t no way to call to prove that. Phone’s down.”

  Charlie sighed, pulled out his Amex card, his MasterCard, his Eurocard, a couple hundred thousand dollars’ worth of credit all told. “They’re all good,” he said. “I can prove they belong to me.”

  “Cash,” the man said, “only.”

  Charlie eyed him. “Right, then,” he said. “Tell you what. Charge an extra hundred dollars to the total.” The man thought about it for at least a half-second. Then shook his head. “Cash,” he said. “Radio says the economy’s gone crazy. I don’t know them banks are still around.”

  “Of course they’re around!” Waving a card. “This is Chase Manhattan Bank.” Waving another. “This is American Express!”

  “You got a problem here, pop?” the young man said. He stood behind Charlie and to one side, hand placed casually on the butt of his revolver.

  “Cash,” the older man said. “None of your funny foreign money, neither.” There was a sadistic glint in his eye: he was enjoying this, humiliating one of the rich he’d served all his life. I’m working class, too!

  Charlie wanted to say. But he knew it was pointless: Americans didn’t know one British accent from another, thought everyone was a lord.

  “Charge me double, then,” Charlie said.

  The man took the plastic bag of canned goods in one hand, moved it out of Charlie’s reach. “You got cash or not?”

  “I thank God,” said a woman on the radio, “for the miracle that saved us.” Charlie reached into his pocket, took out his money clip. It held a ten, two singles, some change. The older man reached into Charlie’s bag and took out a can of Vienna sausage. “This and one of the bottles, eleven dollars.”

  Charlie gave him eleven dollars. The man added it to a thick roll he produced from his pocket. Charlie looked in anger at the single dollar remaining.

  “Sell you a lottery ticket for that?” the older man asked, and laughed. The laughter followed Charlie out of the store.

  Charlie Johns paced back and forth before the chasm in the road. His heart thudded in his chest. “King of the Jungle,” he whispered to himself.

  He needed to get out of here. He had eaten all the Vienna sausages at once, and they’d served only to make him more hungry.

  He had a car, he thought, Megan’s BMW. He could just drive away, drive till he found some place that would take his credit cards or his checks. Someplace sane, where the phones worked. But he didn’t have the keys to Megan’s car, he realized.

  Megan had them. And Megan was dead and in the back of the house and lying under the tub dead in the part of the house where Megan was dead… His mind whirled. He felt the need to sit down, and he found the curb and sat.

  The keys, he thought, were probably in her handbag. And her handbag was lying in the room somewhere. He might be able to find it without even looking at Megan. Charlie rose from the curb, swayed, and walked back to his house. He felt he required fortification, so he went to the kitchen first, to the wine rack, and opened a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape. He drank half of it from the neck—good things in wine, he thought, real nutrition there.

  The wine’s flush prickled along his skin. With his stomach almost empty, the alcohol hit him quickly. Get to the bedroom fast, he thought. Grab the handbag. Run.

  In his haste Charlie stumbled over the water heater that sprawled in the back hall and almost went to his knees. He wrenched himself upright and kept on going, his shoes squelching on the wet carpet. Floorboards sagged under his weight. Don’t look, he thought. He lurched to the door and stepped into the master bedroom.

  “Oh God,” he said, and closed his eyes. He turned and lurched blindly for the door. He ran into the door frame and felt a cracking blow to his head. He staggered through the door and down the hall, and then he fell across the water heater and vomited up his Vienna sausages and red wine. Because there were flies now, a black cloud of them, and maggots, so many maggots that they crowded on each other and leaped a foot in the air and fell with the sound of soft rain. Charlie staggered to the kitchen and his bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape, and he rinsed his mouth with the wine and then gagged and went to his knees as his stomach convulsed.

  He went out of the house to the BMW and lay down across the two front seats. He still had the wine bottle clutched in his hands.

  He could still detect Megan’s scent hovering in the car.

  After a while, he took another drink of wine.

  The Comet has been passing to the westward since it passed its perihelion—perhaps it has touched the mountain of California, that has given a small shake to this side of the globe—or the shake which the Natchezians have felt may be a mysterious visitation from the Author of all nature, on them for their sins—wickedness and the want of good faith have long prevailed in that territory. Sodom and Gomorrha would have been saved had three righteous persons been found in it—we therefore hope that Natchez has been saved on the same principle.

  The Louisiana Gazette and Daily Advertiser (New Orleans), December 11, 1811

  “Remember to bring in the food! All the food!” Brother Frankland called after the little convoy he was sending down into the Arkansas Delta. “Bring all the survivors, but bring as much food as you can!” The trucks and four-wheel-drive vehicles crunched gravel as they rolled out of the church parking lot and onto the highway. Frankland’s people—conspicuous in their official-looking white armbands—were doing a good job of bringing in survivors from isolated farms, along with as many supplies as could be scrounged from wrecked buildings or dug out of collapsed cellars. It turned out that Frankland would need as much food as his scavengers could provide.

  They’d managed to plunder the Piggly Wiggly, though, of everything edible that had survived the quake. The sheriff’s department hadn’t interfered, being told that the people in the white armbands were relief workers, and Piggly Wiggly management were somewhere else. Sheryl was salting down as much of the meat as hadn’t gone directly into the stewpot, and storing the flour in plastic garbage barrels, along with bay leaves to discourage the weevils from eating more than their fair share.

  Not that weevils weren’t a good source of protein in themselves.

  Protein was also available in the local catfish farms. Since the catfish farmers couldn’t get their fish to market, Frankland reasoned, they might as well donate their harvest. But he hadn’t spoken to any of them other than his parishioner Joe Johnson, who was willing to contribute his income for his soul’s sake. The food issue aside, things were going well. By now, the second day following the quake, the Church of the End Times had turned into a regular encampment, encompassing half the ten acres that comprised Frankland’s property. Tents marched in disciplined rows. Latrines had been dug and screened with canvas or plastic sheets that crackled in the brisk wind. Reverend Garb had brought in his own parishioners to help out, and now there were black hands working alongside the white in getting the camp ready.

  It was laid out like an army camp. The Army of the Lord.

  Hilkiah was out on the fields planting a series of poles in the ground—planting them deep in quick-setting concrete, so that they’d stay upright during any future tremors. Then he’d string them with loudspeakers, so that everyone, throughout the growing compound, could have the benefit of the Good News simultaneously being broadcast on the radio station. Frankland, Dr. Calhoun, and the Reverend Garb took turns broadcasting, varying their message between urging refugees to make their way to town, asking listeners to donate supplies, and lengthy sermons on the End Times.

  Near the churc
h, a portable drilling rig—one Frankland had bought fifth-hand years ago—was putting in a new well. The quake had sheared the pipes from Frankland’s two old wells, but he’d been prepared for that, and his cisterns would be sufficient till they could get new wells dug. Things were much better organized here than in town. Rails Bluff had long since run out of emergency supplies, personnel, food, and fresh water. All Sheriff Gorton could do when refugees straggled in was to advise them to continue up Highway 417 to the Reverend Frankland’s place. He was sending them in shuttles on Dr. Calhoun’s bus, along with as many of Rails Bluff’s own inhabitants as he could persuade to go.

  Communication was nonexistent: the telephone exchange had been destroyed, ground lines were down, radios in the sheriff’s cars didn’t carry far enough to reach anywhere else, cellular phone relays were all gone. It was probably a blessing, Frankland thought—he could do his work here without worrying about corruption and evil broadcast from the outside, but he still felt sorry for those worried about loved ones they could not reach.

  “Brother Frankland?”

  Frankland turned at the sound of Garb’s voice. “Brother Garb?” he smiled.

  “Heaven-o,” said Garb.

  “Beg pardon?”

  Garb gave a shy smile. “Heaven-o. It’s a way of saying ‘hello,’ except it leaves out the ‘hell.’ It always bothered me that there was hell in hello.”

  Frankland nodded in admiration. “Heaven-o! That’s great!” he said. “Did you think of that?”

  “No, I heard that there was this county in Texas that voted to replace hello with heaven-o, and I thought it was a pretty good idea.”

  “Maybe we should make it official here in the camp.”

  “I’d be very pleased if we could.” Garb adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles. “I’ve just been speaking to that last bus-load of refugees that came up from town,” he said. “Half of them are from below the bluff, down in the Delta.”

  Frankland nodded. “They can hear our message in the Delta? That’s good.” Garb shook his head. “No, they didn’t hear you. They came here because it was the only place they could go. The levees broke, and everyone in the Delta was flooded out.”

  Frankland shook his head. All those rich farmers growing cotton and soya in the Arkansas Delta, living off the fat of the land while their neighbors, and their neglected brethren in Rails Bluff, stayed poor. Now the rich farmers were refugees, and Rails Bluff their only hope.

  “God bless them,” Frankland said. That Wal-Mart superstore, he thought, must be flooded out, too.

  “The ones who got out were those who live close to the bluff,” Garb went on, “or who owned boats that could get them through the flooding. There must be many more people down there who have been stranded.” Garb looked up at Frankland. “I was thinking that we should organize rescue groups with boats, just as we’ve done with jeeps and trucks. Go out there into the flooded country, bring people in.” Frankland put a hand on Garb’s shoulder. “Brother Garb, that’s a brilliant idea. Bless you.” Garb smiled. “Thank you . I can ask some of the refugees to serve as guides, because they know the country. And of course they already have boats.”

  “Put our own people in the boats as well, make sure the thing’s done right.”

  “Reliable people.”

  “Exactly.” Frankland nodded.

  It was glorious to have so many people here on his wave-length.

  “I will organize it, if you like,” Garb said.

  “Thank you, Brother Garb.” He hesitated. “Don’t forget the Wal-Mart. Tools, supplies, food.”

  “Guns and ammunition.”

  “Amen,” said Frankland.

  There was the sound of a horn blaring from the highway, and Frankland looked up to see a pickup truck rolling in from the east. The driver waved a hand from his window as he turned into the church parking lot. Frankland could see another man in the bed of the truck. He and Garb trotted up to the truck as it ground to a halt on the gravel.

  The driver hopped out. Frankland recognized him as the sixteen-year-old son of one of his parishioners, a scavenger who had been sent out east with some others. “We’ve got a casualty,” the boy said. “We pulled him out of a wrecked car at the bottom of the Rails River Bridge. He must have been on the bridge when it collapsed.”

  “He’s been down there for two days?” Garb said, impressed.

  “He was about to drown when we pulled him out. The river’s rising.” The boy walked around the pickup and let down the tailgate. “It was a heck of a job getting him up the riverbank,” he said. “We need a stretcher or something to get him to the infirmary.”

  “We don’t have any stretchers,” Garb said, “but I’ll get a canvas cot.” Garb hustled away. Frankland looked into the bed of the truck and felt a rush of cold surprise. Father Guillaume Robitaille. Personal emissary from the Prince of Darkness to Rails Bluff. The priest was pale where he wasn’t sunburned, and crusted with his own blood. His nose was mashed over most of his face, his eyes were black, his front teeth had been knocked out. He looked at the world without comprehension, from rolling, half-slitted eyes. He shivered and trembled and made little whining noises.

  Frankland gave silent thanks to the Lord, who had put the great Roman Enemy in his power.

  “We’ll take Father Robitaille to my house,” he said. “I want to look after him personally.” He looked down at the priest.

  “Heaven-o, Father,” he said. “Heaven-o.”

  “Sweet Lord, look at that,” Sheryl said. Frankland nodded.

  Father Robitaille trembled and whimpered in their bed. They had given him water, though he’d thrown most of it back up, and they’d tried to feed him, but he hadn’t been hungry, or maybe just hadn’t recognized his meal as food. He seemed pretty far gone.

  He was safe enough in Frankland’s house, though. Like his church and broadcast center, it was steel-framed and set firmly on its foundation. It featured steel walls, steel window frames, steel doors and door frames.

  Frankland hadn’t intended it that way, but when he was putting the building up, he realized it wouldn’t make a bad jail.

  Or a drunk tank.

  “When I was growing up in Little Rock,” Frankland said, “there was a little ol’ Catholic church between where I lived and where I went to school. And my folks told me that when I walked to school, I should be sure to cross the street when I got to the Catholic church, and walk on the other side, so that the Devil wouldn’t jump out of the church and get me. And most of the other kids in the neighborhood had been told the same thing, so practically everyone crossed the street to keep clear of the Catholics.” He chuckled. “Some of the braver kids would sneak up to the church, knock on the door, and run. Dare the Devil to come out and chase them.”

  Sheryl nodded. “Your parents knew what they were talking about,” he said.

  “Yep.” Frankland grinned. “When I was a child, I didn’t understand that it was just a, a what-d’you-call-it, a metaphor. There wasn’t a literal Devil in there, not the kind with horns and tail—well, I guess there wasn’t, I never looked. But my folks were right that if you went to the Catholic church, the Devil would get you in his clutches.” He laughed. “You know, I’ve never been in a Catholic church to this day. Not even just to look around.”

  “Me neither,” said Sheryl.

  “Ba ba,” Robitaille muttered through his broken teeth.

  Frankland looked down at him. “Look at the Devil now.”

  “Hah,” Robitaille said. His eyes came open, seemed to focus on Frankland. “Hah. Help.” Frankland leaned closer. “Yes. We’re here for you.”

  “Help.”

  “We’re here to save you,” Frankland said. Which wasn’t the same thing as help, not exactly.

  “Ta,” Robitaille said. “Ta. Trink.”

  “He wants a drink,” Sheryl said.

  Frankland poured a glass of water from the pitcher and held it to Robitaille’s lips. Robitaille raised a hand to the glass
and gulped eagerly at the water, and then his whole body gave a violent shudder, and he turned away, retching. Water spilled from his lips.

  “Cochonl” he shouted. “Qui es-tu? Un espece defou?”

  “He doesn’t want a drink, teddy bear,” Sheryl said. “He wants a drink.”

  “Donne-moi un verrel Un verrel”

  Frankland straightened. “Well. Water’s what he gets.” He looked down at Robitaille. “Water’s what we’ve got! It’s all we’ve got!”

  Robitaille began to cry. Fat tears fell from his blackened eyes. “Je vais mourirl Donne-moi un verrel Je vais mourir si je ne trouve pas un verre.”

  “What’s that language?” Frankland asked. “Latin, like the pope talks?”

  “I guess.”

  Frankland refilled the glass, put the glass on the table within the reach of Robitaille’s arms.

  “I’m gonna let him calm down,” he said. “Then maybe the two of us can have a real chat.” He and Sheryl left the room, and nodded to the guard that Frankland had put on the door. One of the older men in their church, a tough farmer who wasn’t about to let a drunk priest sway him from his duty.

  “Look after him,” Frankland iaid. “Give him anything he wants except alcohol—and I’m afraid that’s all he’s going to want.”

  “Where would I find alcohol, Brother Frankland?” The farmer grinned.

  “Somebody might have snuck some alcohol in.”

  “Well, I’ll keep on the lookout.”

  “I appreciate it, friend,” Frankland said.

  Frankland made his way down the hall, past the extra furniture and breakable items they’d taken from the bedroom before they put Robitaille in the bed.

  And then Robitaille, behind the steel door, began to scream, hoarse wails that prickled the hair on Frankland’s arms.

  “Dang,” the farmer said. “That don’t even sound human.”

  Frankland thought about that for the next hour or so, and then he decided it was a question to which he’d better find out the answer.

  Jessica’s stomach gave a pleasant rollercoaster lurch as her helicopter circled the Gateway Arch. The ruins of St. Louis were spread out below her. The blackened devastation of yesterday morning’s propane explosion, where the fire chief and a couple dozen of his men were martyred, was plain to see. There was a circular crater in the center of the area, filled with water from the River Des Peres. Smoke rose from persistent fires. The morning’s brisk southwest wind was whipping up flames that had died down the day before.