Cataclysm

by Tim Washburn

  She pinwheels both ends of the paddle through the water as Andy takes huge, lunging stabs, pulling with all his might. The kayak shoots down the river as a torrent of debris continues to pelt them. A jagged piece of something lands on Andy’s leg, scorching the fabric of his jeans. He grabs it and hurls it into the river, his fingers stinging from the burn. Michelle drops her paddle as she struggles to pull the hot ash from her hair. Andy snags the paddle and uses the broad end to splash water onto her head before steering the kayak toward the cover of an overhanging group of pine trees.

  The deluge continues as larger rocks hit the water, shooting up great gouts of water—a hiss of steam with each splash. Andy snags one of the branches, bringing the kayak to a halt. “Are you okay?” he shouts above the noise.

  Michelle turns and he sees a small rivulet of blood running down her cheek. “Do I look okay to you?”

  “We can’t stay here.” He hands her the paddle. “Use one end to shield your head.”

  She braces one end against the kayak, holding the other end over her head.

  Andy glances back over his shoulder. The fire is closer. He turns back to Michelle. “Hold on tight. Rapids ahead.”

  She wails as he lets go of the branch. With rapids ahead, the current is swifter, and Andy tries to keep the kayak under the overhanging branches for as long as possible. Two hundred yards later, the overhead canopy disappears and the rain of hot rocks and ash bombards them again. He steers the kayak toward the middle of the stream, lining up for the pass through the rapids. Having worked the last two summers guiding along the river, Andy has made this trip a hundred times. But never while being deluged by a hellish monsoon of burning debris.

  He steals another glance behind him. The wall of flames is licking at the edges of the last bend they’d passed. Andy gulps in a lungful of air as he turns to focus on his task. The first portion of the rapids consists of a group of larger boulders lined up in the middle of the stream. He steers toward the far bank as the nose of the kayak dips into the water. Michelle, catching sight of the danger ahead, screams.

  Andy carves a sharp left turn, shifts his paddle to the other side, and cuts a hard right, shooting the gap between two boulders. The boat goes airborne, and he braces his body for impact. “Hold on!”

  Michelle’s arms are tight, her tendons and muscles pushing against the surface of her skin as she maintains a death grip on the sides of the kayak. Ahead, two large boulders lie diagonally across the stream with only a small window of daylight between them. Using the paddle, Andy rudders the rear end around and points the nose toward the gap. Water swirls in a whirlpool, pulling the front of the boat out of line, but Andy switches hands and plunges his paddle deep into the water. The left edge of the kayak scrapes against the rock as they shoot through.

  There’s no time to rejoice, because the worst of the rapids is just ahead.

  Maneuvering first one way then the other, Andy cuts back and forth through a shallow section of gravel, trying to straighten the kayak out for the six-foot plunge ahead. “Hold on tight,” he shouts. “Falls ahead. Be underwater.”

  She gives an imperceptible nod as he pulls his paddle from the water at the last moment. The kayak falls through the air, plunging beneath the icy water, Andy and Michelle hanging on for dear life. The boat surfaces, but it’s sluggish from taking on water. He steers around another rock, but the response times are slow and the kayak slams broadside into a massive boulder. They bounce off and go careening down the stream, pinballing among the boulders until Andy can regain control. After one final turn, they clear the last grouping of rocks, and the kayak slows. He steers toward the far bank, nosing the kayak up on a sandbar. They climb out on shaky legs.

  “I think we’re out of the worst of it,” Michelle says, looking back upriver. Small splashes ripple across the water but there is no longer a constant deluge.

  “I don’t want to stand around to find out. Let’s empty the water and get back on the river.”

  Michelle helps him flip the boat, then turns to give Andy a hug. She nuzzles his neck. “Thank you.”

  Andy stifles the I told you so and tilts his head down to give her a kiss. “You’re welcome.”

  They climb back aboard the kayak and Andy steers them toward the center of the current as a thick layer of smoke settles over the water.

  CHAPTER 59

  Outskirts of Bozeman, Montana

  Ralph Barlow nurses the Park Service truck into the hotel parking lot. Stop number ten on their search for a place to bed down. Sputtering and shaking, the pickup may be traveling its last mile after sucking up too much ash. With two vents at the caldera now open, an enormous amount of ash is in the air, causing trouble for motorists all over northeastern Wyoming. Ralph had stopped to shake out the air filter three or four times to little effect. He pushes open the driver’s door while his wife, June, and April exit on the other side. Ralph could go the rest of his life without hearing either one talk again about finding a “May” to join their little group.

  Ralph is beyond grumpy. He’d called all of his hotel contacts to find everyone overbooked. With all flights canceled and better than half the cars dead from ash exposure, finding a place to hole up in Bozeman is becoming a nearly impossible task. Hence their stop at Happy Acres Motel, a place that looks as if it hadn’t been tickled by a paintbrush since Reagan left office. A smattering of weeds sprouts through the gravel parking lot, and the pool had been turned into a flower garden, minus the flowers. Cigarette butts litter the cracked sidewalk, and empty pint bottles glint in the sunlight.

  Ralph pushes through the door. Stale sweat, decades of cigarette smoke, and the rank odor of cat piss are the first things to greet him. An old television is blaring a daytime talk show behind the counter, and a big, fat cat is perched on a broken-down recliner in the lobby. Ralph takes a step back toward the door, but stops. They’re out of options. He steps up to the counter and rings the bell with the snap of his index finger.

  A rotund woman, dressed in a tattered housecoat, pushes through a set of curtains staked over a doorway. “Need a room, sweetie?”

  “Need two rooms if you have them.”

  “I can do you one, honey, the last of the bunch.”

  Ralph is doing his best to breathe through his mouth. “How much?”

  “Two hundred a night is the going rate.”

  “Dollars?” Ralph asks, a look of astonishment on his face. “That’s highway robbery.”

  The woman’s smile turns to a frown. “Take it or leave it, sweetie pie. Makes me no never mind.”

  Ralph hesitates for a moment, then begins digging out his wallet. “Credit cards all right?”

  “There’s a ten-percent surcharge if you use a credit card. Most of my customers pay with cash money.”

  Ralph mutters a few curse words as he hands over his card.

  “How many nights you wantin’ it for, sweetie?”

  “Let’s do two for now.”

  The woman extends an oversized paw and snatches his card. “I won’t be able to guarantee you a room if you change your mind.”

  “Just two nights.”

  “There aren’t any other rooms within fifty miles of this place.”

  “I realize that, ma’am, but I’m not sure we’ll be staying in Bozeman longer than that,” he says while thinking a pyroclastic flow would be the best thing to ever happen to this place.

  “Suit yourself.” The woman gives him a frown as she turns and disappears behind the curtain.

  Ralph steps over to pet the cat and gets a hiss for his efforts. He turns back to the counter when the woman waddles back in.

  “Sign here and put your tag number on the bottom of the slip.”

  Ralph scrawls his name on the line and scribbles down a group of random numbers for the tag.

  She places a key attached to a horseshoe on the counter. “A lost key will set you back about fifty bucks.”

  Ralph picks up the horseshoe and dangles the key. “Be kind of h
ard to lose, wouldn’t it?”

  “You’d be surprised,” the woman says. “You work for the Park Service?”

  “Huh?”

  “I saw the pickup. You didn’t steal it, did you?”

  “Of course not.” Ralph turns to make his escape.

  “Hell of a thing happening down there. What with that volcano and all.”

  Ralph pauses at the door and turns. “Yep, sure is. You have an ice machine?”

  “Had. Went out last summer.”

  Ralph pushes through the door and takes several deep breaths of fresh air.

  “You get two rooms?” June calls from the pickup.

  He dangles the key. “One. If you can call it that.”

  April and June clasp hands as they stroll across the parking lot. Ralph hands them the key. “I’m going to take a look at the pickup. See if I can get her running better.”

  “Why, Ralph? We have a place to stay.”

  “The room was only available for two nights. We need to push on further north and we can’t do that unless the truck is running.”

  June gives him a scowl. “Okay, Ralph. You don’t have to bite my head off.”

  “I’m sorry, sweet . . . June. Been a long day. April, use the phone to make some calls if you need to. I’m not sure how much longer we’ll have phone service.”

  “I’ve already talked to my parents. There’s no way for me to get home. So I guess you and June are stuck with me.”

  Ralph’s gut twists. “Hey, no problem. You guys check out the room and see if there’s someplace we can go for dinner.”

  June and April scoot off as he pops the hood. An older-model truck, thanks to budget constraints, the engine relies on a carburetor to deliver fuel to the cylinders. The fuel is mixed with outside air and is forced down through the four barrels to create an air-fuel mixture. Ralph unscrews the lid and carefully removes the air filter, hoping to spill as little ash as possible into the carb. As he suspected, the filter is clogged. He tosses it onto the gravel, sending up a plume of ash. He bends over and hits the filter against the ground, but the ash is so fine it clings to the paper element. Ralph stands, looking around for a gas station to buy a replacement, when his cell phone rings. He glances at the caller ID, groans, and puts the phone to his ear. “Tell me you have good news, Jeremy.”

  “I wish I did, Ralph. But I don’t. The eruption occurring near the Norris area appears to be growing in scope.”

  “Is this the big one?”

  “No, but with two vents open, it’s only a matter of time before we have a caldera-wide eruption.”

  “How soon?”

  “Unknown, Ralph. Could be an hour or as long as a couple of days.”

  “Are we safe here in Bozeman?”

  “I don’t have a good answer for you.”

  “Well, let me put it to you this way, Jeremy: If you were standing where I am, would you stay?”

  “No, Ralph, I don’t think I would.”

  DAY 2

  CHAPTER 60

  Yellowstone park headquarters

  Tucker takes a sip of water from one of the water bottles they’d jimmied from the vending machine at the Center for Resources. “Any candles left?”

  “Last one,” Rachael says, pointing toward the candle tucked into a corner of the cellar. This one is mulberry scented, and the sweet aroma is cloying in such a confined space.

  They had searched for shelter all around the headquarters area before stumbling upon an old root cellar beneath the field officers’ quarters building, part of the old Fort Yellowstone. They lugged a piece of sheet steel over from the maintenance shop to cover the wooden doors. There’s enough of a draft to allow them to breathe, but the accommodations are miserable. Usually cool underground, the cellar is now a hotbox created by the fires raging overhead. Tucker is down to his boxers, and Rachael is wearing a sports bra and boy-short panties. They’ve had ample opportunities to ogle each other.

  Tucker leans back against the earthen wall. “Tell me about your family.”

  Rachael rolls over to her side, seeking coolness from the dirt floor. “You mean the biracial part?”

  “If that’s what you want to talk about, sure.”

  “That’s the part you want to hear about, isn’t it?”

  “Rachael, quit being so defensive about your heritage. It’s like you have a chip the size of Mount Washburn on your shoulder.”

  Rachael sighs and traces a finger through an area of loosened soil. “It’s difficult growing up with a black mother and a white father. We couldn’t go out as a family without people staring at us. And in a small town, you see the same people over and over again. You’d think they would have grown accustomed to the oddity of it. And some of them did, but a larger portion continued to treat us as some type of rare anomaly. I couldn’t wait to get out of that town.”

  “I grew up in a small town with what you’d call”—Tucker makes air quotes with his fingers—“a normal family. You have any siblings?”

  “A younger sister who’s a senior at the University of Texas.”

  “Is she majoring in one of the geology fields?”

  “Nope. International business. Wants to travel the world.” She glances up at Tucker. “Matt your only sibling?”

  “Yep. Two rowdy boys, and we did our share of hell-raising. I’m sure some of the older people in town were glad to see us go off to college.”

  Rachael chuckles. “Probably boring there now, with the two Mayfield boys long gone.”

  “I’m sure there have been many who came along to take our place. Wasn’t much to do after school or work, other than drive around looking for something to do. Most of the time it ended in some type of mischief.”

  The conversation fades for a few moments until Rachael says, “Tell me about your father. I remember what you told me while we were driving to Mammoth.”

  “About him being a racist?”

  Rachael nods in the dim light.

  Tucker blows out a heavy breath. “He is a product of his history, although that’s no excuse for his bigotry. We had a hardware store in town. That’s where I worked when I wasn’t in school. When I was smaller, I didn’t think much of it. But as I grew older, I cringed every time someone other than a white person came into the store. Every Indian, or, I guess, Native American, that came in he called Chief. ‘Hey, Chief, whatcha need?’ Didn’t matter if it was man or woman, young or old, if you were Native American your name was Chief.” Tucker digs a small hole in the dirt with the heel of his boot.

  “There weren’t very many black people in town. But there were a few who would come in looking for some piece of hardware. He refused to wait on them. ‘I ain’t here to serve no niggers,’ he’d mutter as he pushed me or my brother out from behind the counter. I don’t know what happened the days we weren’t there. He probably told them to get the hell out.” Tucker glances up at Rachael. “I made a promise to myself during one of those instances that, for the rest of my life, I will treat everyone as an equal. Man, woman, black, white, or brown, everyone’s equal in my eyes. I’ve lived by that mantra since the age of eleven.”

  “Where’s your father now?”

  “In a nursing home. He has advanced Alzheimer’s. Doesn’t know who he is most of the time, but he hasn’t forgotten his bigotry. A few of the nurses at the home are African American, and he won’t let any of them care for him. Or they refuse to—I don’t know which is true.” Tucker digs the hole a little deeper with the heel of his boot. “At home he had moments of levity, but I just don’t understand how he could be so coldhearted to others.”

  Rachael scoots up to a sitting position. “I think you hit the nail on the head. He’s a product of history. A lot of people from that generation cursed the blacks all through the civil rights era and rooted for the South in their fight against integration. It was a difficult time for the entire country. I just hope we can put the whole race issue behind us as the older generation fades away. What about your mother? Was she cut
from the same cloth?”

  “God, no, she was an angel. Never had a bad word to say about anyone. She died when I was a junior in high school. Cancer. After that my dad got drunker and meaner. I could never figure out what she saw in him.”

  The conversation hits another lull and they fall into a silence, the faint hiss of the burning candle the only noise. After a lengthy few moments, Rachael says, “Tell me about you and Jessica.”

  “I’m sorry, Rachael, but that subject’s off-limits.”

  The silence returns, this time for a longer stretch. Tucker pushes to his feet and walks over to the metal cover, where he tests the temperature with the back of his hand.

  “Still hot?” Rachael asks.

  “Yeah, but not nearly as hot as it has been. We might be able to push it out of the way in a little while.”

  He turns and Rachael pats the earth next to her. “I won’t bite, and I promise no more annoying questions.”

  Tucker sniffs his armpit. “I don’t smell very pleasant.”

  “I’m no bouquet of roses, either.”

  Tucker kneels and plops his butt down next to Rachael, leaning his back against the dirt wall. “I need to be out there looking for Matt, Jess, and the kids.”

  Rachael reaches across and threads her fingers through his. “Tucker, you need to get your mind around the possibility that—”

  “They’re out there, Rachael. Alive.”

  “I hope you’re right, but you need to consider the alternative.”

  “Walt knows this park better than anyone on staff. He could have found a place for them to ride out the worst of it.”

  “You don’t think we’ve seen the last of the eruptions, do you?”

  “Not by a long shot. That’s why it’s imperative to find them as quickly as possible.”

  “But if there’s another eruption while we’re searching we’ll be exposed.”

  “There is no we, Rachael. My family, my risk.”

  “Four eyes are better than two. And I’ve been to every nook and cranny within the park while working on my hydrology study.”