Cataclysm

by Tim Washburn

  “And that doesn’t scare the shit out of you?”

  “Yes, that scares me. But you have to admit—”

  A pinging alarm sounds from her monitor. She turns back to her computer, quickly scrolling through data.

  “Is that one of the alarms you programmed?”

  West nods as she continues to click through screens. She stops and points to the webicorder display for Soda Butte, in the far northeastern part of the park.

  Snider leans in. “Jeez. How big?”

  “I haven’t seen a live seismogram of this magnitude since this all started. I would think somewhere in the low sevens.”

  “That’s many miles away from the caldera. Could it be fault activity?”

  “There aren’t many faults in that portion of the park. My vote is magma movement. And a whole bunch of it.”

  Snider picks up the phone and punches in a number, tapping a foot as he waits for the call to be answered. After four rings it does. “Jeremy, you see the data from Soda Butte?”

  “I’m looking at it right now. That’s a major earthquake.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think we may have underestimated the amount of eruptible material within the caldera.”

  “Why? Do you think this earthquake is the result of a rapid infusion of magma?” Snider asks.

  “I don’t think there’s any way we’ll ever know for sure. I wish we had a working seismometer within the caldera so that we could pinpoint the epicenter. But with the lack of active fault zones in that area, and the fact that we haven’t had another eruption, it leads me to believe the chamber could be receiving a large intrusion.”

  “How much magma do you think is now present?”

  “I don’t think we have enough data to even hazard a guess, Eric. We may never truly know how much magma is in the chamber. There’s just no way to quantify it. Hell, it wasn’t until a couple of years ago that we figured out the magma chamber was twice as large as we originally thought. But without any working instruments and their data, we’re shooting in the dark.”

  “Screw the data. What’s your gut telling you?”

  Lyndsey sighs. “I don’t know. Maybe as much as 400 cubic miles of eruptible material.”

  “Jesus, Jeremy, that’s nearly twice the size we’ve predicted.”

  “You asked for my gut estimate. Either way, it’s going to be one hell of a big bang.”

  CHAPTER 66

  Yellowstone park headquarters

  Rachael grabs on to Tucker to steady herself. “You feel that?”

  “Hell yes, I felt that. Strongest one yet.”

  The large earthquake hastens their pace. They top a low rise and pause to catch their breath. “There it is,” Tucker says pointing forward. “It” is an old stone barn with a metal roof slapped haphazardly across the top. “C’mon, let’s move.”

  They hurry down the incline, kicking great gouts of ash into the wind. The large metal door squeals when Tucker heaves it open. The scent of used motor oil, diesel, and fifty years of sunbaked upholstery overwhelms them. Inside the barn rests a vehicle with a frog-looking snout and a long, rounded body, painted a deep yellow. Rubber tracks are looped around the four back wheels and skis are mounted where the front tires should have been.

  “We’re going to drive the old snow coach?” Rachael asks as she rakes her hand across the hood, disturbing the accumulated ash and dust. “Does it even run?”

  “It did this winter and has for sixty-some years. Let’s just hope the battery has some juice.”

  “Won’t the ash foul the engine?”

  “Look around for some old rags. The engine takes in air through those grilles at the back. If we can cover them with some oil-soaked rags or some other type of filtration material it might get us where we’re going. It’s not like we have any other options. We walk or we take Old Yeller, here.”

  Rachael rummages around the barn while Tucker works on starting the ancient vehicle. He climbs in and spends a brief moment familiarizing himself with the cockpit area and, with only two gauges and a couple of toggle switches, it doesn’t take long. He presses down on the clutch and moves the column-mounted shifter up and down, trying to get a feel for the gear pattern. He finds a small round knob labeled CHOKE and pulls it out before turning the key. The gauges activate, but the key will turn no farther. While he’s glad to see the old girl with some juice, he has no clue on how to trigger the starter. He leans out through the open door. “Rachael, any ideas on how to start this thing?”

  She walks over, an oil-stained blanket trailing behind her, and peers into the cab. “The starter’s on the floor, right next to the gas pedal.”

  Tucker glances up. “How do you know that?”

  “My grandpa had a couple of old trucks on the farm. When I was little, I’d drive him around the pasture while he threw hay out to the cows.”

  “How about you drive, then. I haven’t driven a stick shift in about twenty years.”

  “See if it’ll start before we have any discussions about who’s driving.”

  “Cross your fingers,” Tucker says as he double-checks the choke and puts his foot to the starter. After several sluggish turns, the engine fires to life. “Guess you’re driving. Find something to cover the intakes?”

  Rachael holds up the raggedy blanket. “Covered with cat hair. No telling how many litters called this blanket home.”

  Tucker climbs out, takes the blanket from her, and carries it over to an old workbench that’s listing on one end. After ripping the blanket into strips, he drizzles some used motor oil over the fabric. “Rach, see if you can find some string or wire. We need some way to affix these to the intakes.”

  She returns with a ball of coiled-up baling wire, and he hands her a rag to attach. Once both complete their tasks, Rachael slides behind the wheel. “Find any extra fuel?”

  “Found two five-gallon containers and stashed them in the back. The tank is full but I have no idea how far all that will get us.”

  Rachael works the shifter and eases out on the clutch. The snow coach lurches forward and dies. She glances over at Tucker. “Been a while for me, too.” After restarting, she eases the beast out of the barn. “Think the skis will work on the ash?”

  “Should. I guess we’re about to find out.”

  She gooses the gas pedal and steers them out toward the road. “Where exactly are we going?”

  “Let’s start with Mount Washburn. Used to be some old mine shafts up that way, and I’m betting Walt knows about them. That’s about the only place they could have gone and survived the last pyroclastic flow.”

  CHAPTER 67

  USGS Yellowstone Volcano Observatory

  Jeremy Lyndsey hangs up the phone and runs his fingers through the wispy tendrils at the top of his skull. After a brief moment of contemplation, he lifts the handset again and punches in the phone number scrawled across a note stuck haphazardly to his computer monitor.

  The call is answered on the second ring. “Mr. Granger, this is Jeremy Lyndsey.”

  “I know, Doc. I’ve got you programmed into my cell. More bad news?” Ethan Grangers asks.

  “Potentially. Is the President available to take my call?”

  “She’s in a meeting at the moment, Doc, but I’ll pass on your message.”

  Lyndsey bristles at the man’s seeming lack of concern. “The message is this: Yellowstone was struck by a 7.4 magnitude earthquake only moments ago. This is the largest earthquake ever recorded on park grounds. And by a very wide margin. After conferring with my colleagues, we believe the earthquake was caused by a massive intrusion of magma into the main chamber.”

  “Meaning the larger eruption could occur at any time, Dr. Lyndsey?”

  “Yes, but we now believe the eruption could be far larger than anyone predicted.”

  Silence fills the line for a moment. “Mr. Granger, are you still there?”

  “I’m still here, Doc. How large are we talking about?”

&nbs
p; “The original estimate was the caldera contained about 250 cubic miles of ejectable material. But the mantle plume that feeds the caldera runs nearly four hundred miles deep and stretches over a hundred fifty miles west toward Idaho. In other words, Mr. Granger, the caldera is fed by an almost limitless supply of magma. The key factor, which we have no way to determine, is how much of that magma is melt. But to answer your original question, Mr. Granger, the caldera could produce upwards of 400 cubic miles of ejectable material.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning, Mr. Granger, this could be one of the largest volcanic eruptions in the history of the planet. Life-altering large.”

  “But according to what you previously said, Doc, we were already facing changes on a global scale.”

  “Yes, but previous ash fall estimates put most of the ash over the Midwest. Now we could be looking at substantial ash fall from California to Louisiana. And when I say substantial, I mean several inches or more. The Midwest will be absolutely buried, maybe to the point where the area remains uninhabitable for decades or even centuries. The original estimate spared most of Texas and her large agricultural industry, but, depending on wind patterns, most of the state could receive several inches of ash. To be blunt, Mr. Granger, a larger eruption could tip the scales of our country’s ability to survive. Unfortunately, the bad news doesn’t end—”

  “But Doc, you just stated that no one knows for sure how much melted magma is involved. Are we back to conjecture and theory?”

  “You can classify it any way you want, Mr. Granger, but we strongly believe the magma intrusion is real. The large quake also jumped the needles out west. Are you familiar with the volcanoes along Northern California and up through the Cascade Range?”

  “I know a couple of them are a very high threat for eruption.”

  “More than a couple, Mr. Granger. There are nine volcanoes that could erupt at any moment. If the instability in the region leads to more eruptions, you can write off well over half the United States. And, unless you’re going to live on reserves of tobacco and cotton, most of this country’s fertile fields will be sterilized for generations.”

  “What are we supposed to do, Doc? We can’t alter Mother Nature.”

  Lyndsey sighs. “I don’t know, Mr. Granger. I guess your job is to save as many people as possible. And, sir, in case you’re wondering, we’re already on borrowed time.”

  Camp 17–Biloxi, Mississippi

  Interview: George from Greybull, WY—retired geologist

  “Hell of a thing, huh? I spent a lot of time studying Yellowstone. We didn’t fully understand the complexity of the park. Hell, we didn’t even know there was a volcano there until the 70’s. Hard to believe, I know. And only a couple of years ago, we discovered how large the magma chamber was. We had an idea, but it was twice the size we thought it would be. And there’s a continuous stream of magma that feeds into the system. All of that pristine landscape setting atop one of the largest volcanoes on Earth. Never in a million years did I believe I would be alive to witness an eruption.”

  CHAPTER 68

  Along Grand Loop Road, Yellowstone National Park

  As Tucker and Rachael travel west on the Grand Loop Road, the ash continues to plummet from the slate-colored sky. The ash is deep enough to completely conceal the guardrails, and the few lodgepole pine trees to survive the fire are sagging under the weight of the heavy ash.

  For an old gal, the yellow snow coach motors at a good clip, and Rachael feeds the engine a little more gas. The speedometer is broken, but Tucker estimates their speed to be in the neighborhood of 40 miles per hour and, other than having to steer around fallen trees, they’re making good progress. But that all changes when they reach the next summit of the undulating road. Rachael gasps and slows the snow coach to a stop. Partially melted cars stand all in a line as far as the eye can see, many of them still smoldering. Dozens of large RVs are included in the ruins, their roofs collapsed and the walls blown out by the force of the wind accompanying the pyroclastic flow.

  Rachael turns to Tucker, her face a mask of horror. “Were there people in all those vehicles?”

  Tucker releases a heavy breath. “Most likely. Some might have tried to escape on foot, but they didn’t stand a chance.”

  “Should we look for survivors?”

  Tucker places a hand on her arm. “There are no survivors, Rachael. The cloud of ash and rocks was probably close to a thousand degrees when it swept through here. I won’t go into the gory details about what happens to a human body in those kinds of temps, but the only saving grace is that no one suffered. Death would have been instantaneous.”

  Tears begin rolling down Rachael’s cheeks, cutting imperfect trails through the dust and ash clinging to her face. “That’s hundreds . . . maybe thousands of people.”

  “Rachael, look at me.”

  She turns and he gently thumbs away a tear. “We can’t do anything to help those people. But my family might still be alive. We need to push on.”

  Rachael nods and eases out on the clutch.

  “We need to get off this road. There could be miles of vehicles ahead of us. Are there any fire roads around this area?”

  Rachael steers around the cars while wiping the tears from her cheeks with her free hand. “An old trail connects to the road at the Roosevelt Cabins.” She rubs a knuckle across her nose. “It runs parallel to the road, but dead-ends at Tower Creek.” Rachael slows the snow coach to a crawl while they contemplate their next move.

  “I bet the main road clears up that far south. Do you know how to find the trail?”

  Rachael nods as she takes a final swipe to clear the last of the tears. “I used it while shuttling between Tower Creek and Lost Creek for my hydrology study.”

  Tucker digs through the side pocket of the door looking for a park map. He finds one and unfurls it on his lap. “Tower Creek runs basically southwest”—he traces the creek with his finger—“and merges into Carnelian Creek just north of the Mount Washburn area. I say we shoot for the trail.”

  “I agree. Anything’s better than driving past all this destruction. Those poor people . . .”

  “Rachael, we can’t do anything for those other people. We need to work on finding Walt and my family so we can get the hell out of here before the rest of the caldera erupts. How far to the Roosevelt Cabins area?”

  “Maybe half a mile. Want me to pull off the road?”

  “No, let’s see if we can ease our way to the turnoff first. This whole area is lousy with tree stumps. We’d risk ripping the front end off of this thing. Just take her slow and easy.”

  Rachael struggles with the gearshift, curses, and finally shifts into first. She slowly weaves the snow coach around and through the wreckage. Nearing their turnoff, they pass what used to be a gas station, the lot jammed with the scorched husks of automobiles. Neither offers a comment as they continue on. The landscape transitions from the rolling hills of charred timber to a wide-open valley, cut through by the Yellowstone River. Once covered with sagebrush and wildflowers, the valley now appears cold and foreboding—a gray desert, seemingly absent of life.

  Rachael makes the turnoff at Tower Junction and heads for the area where the cabins once stood. The trees around the campground are bunched tight together, with some hints of green still visible from a few lucky survivors.

  “Can you find the trail in all this ash?” Tucker asks.

  “I think so. I used the last cabin on the left as a trail marker. I guess I’ll target that smoldering pile of debris on the far left.” She aims for a cut through the seared trees and slows the snow coach, swiveling her head from left to right. She extends a finger. “I think the trail is right through that clearing.”

  “You’re the driver.”

  Rachael scowls at his remark as she steers for the gap, giving the snow coach a little more gas. After several stops and starts and one back track, they break into the clear. After motoring all the way to Tower Creek, they stop
to clean the makeshift filters before getting back on the road. Several incinerated cars litter the road, but the numbers are significantly lower than what they encountered near the northeast exit road. They travel along a series of long, sweeping curves through the foothills of the Washburn Range, with Tucker white-knuckling the armrest because of the sheer drop-off on his side of the road.

  “The turnoff for Mount Washburn is just up ahead. It’ll take us to the summit.”

  “Take it. I’d much rather climb down the mountain than try to climb up.”

  Rachael takes the turnoff, and the road leading to the summit feels like traveling up a corkscrew, complete with hairpin turns. The skis on the front of the vehicle scrabble for traction, and she’s forced to slow down as she cranks the wheel one way then the other. “I think my arms might fall off.” She swipes a bead of perspiration from her forehead.

  “Want me to drive for a while?”

  “No, I just wish this thing had power steering. I think we’re almost there, anyway. Which side of the mountain?”

  “I think the one Walt showed me a long time ago was on the west side.”

  “So you don’t know which side?”

  “No, no, I remember. We were up there late in the day and I remember watching the sunset.”

  As they near the summit, they’re rewarded with a 360-degree panoramic view of the park. In the distance, barely visible through the ash and smoky haze, the volcano continues to spew great columns of ash that stretch upward until they disappear from sight.

  “My God, would you look at that,” Tucker says with wonderment in his voice. “And that’s just a fraction of what she can erupt.”

  “I damn sure don’t want to be anywhere in the neighborhood when the rest of it blows.”

  Rachael and Tucker are so preoccupied by the volcano that they don’t see the five people standing on the edge of the parking lot, waving like mad.