Cataclysm

by Tim Washburn

  “Ralph, what the hell are you doing out here?” Walt asks.

  “I was told someone was hiking through my park without a permit.”

  The four chuckle, something none of them has done over the past three days. “We’ll get to all that, but for now, let’s load up and get the hell out of here.” Ralph turns to Tucker. “How long before the caldera blows?”

  “Not long. Sooner rather than later, for sure.”

  Ralph waves the rest of the group forward. “There’s drinks in the back of the truck and food on the backseat.” He turns back to Tucker and lowers his voice. “I do have one piece of distressing news.”

  “More distressing than being thirty miles away from an erupting supervolcano?”

  “Yes. Jeremy thinks there might be twice the amount of eruptible material than first thought.”

  Tucker’s eyes widen. “Based on what?”

  “He believes the last large earthquake was caused by a massive intrusion of magma.”

  “Damn. If that’s the case, this country may never recover.” Tucker pauses and glances out over the landscape. “There’s not a damn thing we can do about it. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Rachael climbs in the backseat with Matt, Jess, and the kids. Ralph, Walt, and Tucker take the front seat with Walt riding bitch. The number of seared automobiles increases exponentially the closer they get to the park exit. Hemmed in by trees on one side and the Soda Butte Creek on the other, the traveling slows to a crawl as Ralph tries to work the pickup around and through the blocked roadway. Eventually the creek circles back under the road and Ralph steers toward the shoulder.

  The last portion of the park road is a steady uphill climb that stretches for several miles. Midway through the climb, the truck begins to sputter and surge as if the transmission is slipping. Ralph eases off the gas and nurses the truck onward. Most everyone gives a little cheer when they pass over the Montana state line, and another when they drive past what remains of the park entrance. Tucker is not one of those cheering, knowing they still have a long way to go before they’re safe.

  The Beartooth Highway runs along the state border before taking a long winding dip back into Wyoming. Going downhill the pickup does fine but any hint of an incline and the truck begins to lurch and quaver like a frightened animal. Ralph pulls over to change the air filter.

  While Ralph grabs a filter from the back, Walt pops the hood and starts cursing. “The top half of the damn filter housing is gone.”

  Ralph steps around the front of the truck. “We’re down to the last—” He stops when he sees the expression on Walt’s face. “What’s wrong?”

  “I think the last of the new filters is the least of our worries.”

  Ralph scans the engine. “Where’s the top to the housing?”

  Walt wipes a hand across his face. “Gone.”

  “What do you mean, gone? You didn’t take it off?”

  “No.”

  They search the engine compartment for the missing cover but come up empty.

  Walt looks over at Ralph. “Did you tighten the wing nut the last time you changed the filter?”

  Ralph bristles. “Of course I tightened the fucking wing nut. Do you think—”

  Tucker steps between the two men. “None of that matters. What matters is how much ash has been sucked into the engine. Think we can make it to Red Lodge?”

  Walt throws his hands up. “Who knows?”

  Ralph looks like he wants to start something that he won’t be able to finish, being about fifty pounds and six inches shorter than Walt Stringer. Tucker decides to head them off at the pass. “If you two want to fight like a couple of fucking first graders, you’ll need to do it later. Right now we need to—”

  Tucker’s words are cut off by a massive explosion that violently shakes the earth beneath their feet. While that explosion is still registering on their brains, another series of ear-numbing explosions erupts like a string of dynamite. But instead of fizzling out at the end, the explosions intensify. It feels as if all the air has been sucked out of the atmosphere before the blast wave hammers them like a punch to the gut. Once he regains his balance, Tucker slams the hood and glances toward the sky to see a mushroom cloud, easily thirty miles in circumference, rocketing upward and already penetrating the stratosphere. The three men pile into the pickup, and Ralph stomps the gas. The pickup lurches, stalls, stutters before finally accelerating.

  Rachael leans forward, propping her elbows on the front seat. “How long?”

  Tucker glances at Ralph. “How fast are we going?”

  “Forty, right now.”

  “How far do you think we are from the north rim of the caldera?”

  Walt swivels his head back and forth with each exchange.

  “From the north rim? Maybe thirty miles.”

  “Are we traveling north?”

  “Still east. The road turns back north about five miles ahead.”

  Walt finally speaks. “How long till what?”

  Rachael puts a hand on his shoulder. “Until we’re incinerated by a pyroclastic flow.”

  Tucker digs a pencil and a piece of paper from the glove box. He scribbles some numbers, tallies the results, then scribbles another set of numbers. When he’s finished he drops his hands to his lap and leans his head against the headrest.

  Rachael kneads his neck. “What did you come up with?”

  “It’s all relative to the speed of the flow, but judging from the size of the explosions, they’ll be in excess of a hundred miles per hour. If we can maintain the same rate of speed once we turn back north—”

  Another explosion sounds, this one much closer. The pickup shudders as if shot and begins to slow.

  Tucker turns to Walt. “Any old mines around here?”

  Walt shakes his head as the truck coasts to a stop.

  CHAPTER 76

  The White House

  Knowing that the President is in the Oval by herself, Ethan Granger taps on the door and pushes through, striding over to the television. President Drummond glances up. “What is it, Ethan?”

  “May I turn on the television?”

  “Of course. Another suicide bombing in Iraq?” She stands from her chair and moves around the desk.

  He clicks on the television and scans through the inputs. “A little closer to home. I asked the Sit Room to patch the military satellite feed up here.” He finds the right one and punches the button. A dark, grainy image dotted with flashes of fire and lightning fills the screen.

  President Drummond walks closer. “Is that Yellowstone?”

  “Yes, ma’am. The entire caldera erupted minutes ago.”

  “My God. I didn’t really fathom the size when they described the dimensions of the volcano. It’s enormous.” She puts a hand on Ethan’s arm. “Is this satellite zoomed in over the park?”

  Ethan steps over to the screen and begins using his finger as a pointer. “No, ma’am, the picture encompasses nearly three states. The entire state of Wyoming is obscured by the ash, but you can distinguish the edges of northern Montana and the far western edge of Idaho.”

  President Drummond sags onto one of the yellow sofas. She spends a moment massaging her temples before pushing out of the sofa and striding toward her desk as she ticks off a to-do list. “We need the National Guard to begin the immediate evacuation of all states west of the Mississippi. FEMA and the Red Cross need to be mobilizing now. Homeland Security needs to be alerted and . . .” She stops and hangs her head for a moment. When she turns back to her chief of staff there are tears in her eyes. “Where in God’s name are we going to put all these people, Ethan?”

  Ethan walks over to put a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll have to establish temporary camps in the more temperate climates, such as Alabama, Georgia, Mississippi, and Florida.”

  President Drummond spins away, her cheeks pinking with anger. “This is the United States, Ethan, not some third world country. We do not put people in camps.”

&nbs
p; “Madam President, these are all issues we need to work out.”

  She waves toward the television. “We don’t have time to form a committee or wade through a whole gaggle of bureaucratic bullshit. This is happening now and we need to be moving. How many people are still in the Cabinet Room?”

  “Quite a few. Several have rotated in and out.”

  President Drummond begins to pace, her heels clicking against the hardwood with every determined step. “I want the heads of every conceivable agency in that room within the hour.”

  “Which ones, ma’am?”

  “Every damn one, Ethan, from Agriculture to Treasury. And no one’s leaving until we have a definitive plan to save what’s left of this country.”

  Ethan hurries toward the door. “I’ll have my staff start making calls.”

  President Drummond paces for a few more moments, but finds herself drawn back to the screen. She stares at the eruption for several minutes before sagging onto the sofa, burying her face in her hands.

  CHAPTER 77

  Red Lodge Airport, Red Lodge, Montana

  J.J. and Joey are lifting off from the Red Lodge Airport when the world to the west explodes. With a delay of several seconds, the shock wave slams into the chopper, and Joey fights for control. He increases the throttle and pulls on the collective, trying to gain altitude. The chopper yaws one way, and he overcor-rects, swinging the tail boom in the opposite direction. They’re on the verge of losing their grip on the air before Joey gets the aircraft back under control. J.J. swallows the bile that has collected at the back of his throat. Both gulp for air as the chopper stabilizes.

  Joey triggers his mic, and when he speaks his voice sounds three octaves higher. “Just about lost her. I don’t think there’s any going back to Cheyenne.”

  “Take a deep breath, Joey. You’re not goin’ to do me a damn bit of good if you stroke out on me.”

  Joey nods and inhales a few deep breaths.

  Once he’s calmed, J.J. triggers his microphone. “Do we return to Red Lodge?”

  Joey glances toward the colossal column of ash, then turns his gaze toward the ground, where a vast cloud of debris is racing outward, tearing across the landscape at incredible speeds. “I don’t think Red Lodge is safe.” He points out the window. “Looks like a tidal wave of fire. To tell the truth, J.J., I don’t know what the hell to do, but we’ve got about ten minutes to figure it out. No way can those filters handle all that ash.”

  J.J. is watching the advancing wave of certain death when something out of the corner of his eye grabs his attention. “Joey, there’s a pickup right there to the west. Fly over it.”

  “Are you crazy? That’s the exact opposite way we need to be going.”

  “I think that’s one of my company trucks. And look, it still has paint on it, which means it hasn’t been there long. If that’s my fuckin’ geologist, I want him.”

  Joey shakes his head like a dog with a snake. “Did you not hear what I just said?”

  “We’re wastin’ time talkin’ about it. Won’t take us but an extra minute or two to find out.”

  Joey continues to shake his head as he pushes the cyclic forward. The helicopter chews through the air and they arrive over the truck a minute later. Eight people are frantically waving their hands in the air.

  “Not my geologist, but there’s a whole pack of people down there. Let’s get ’em.”

  “If we set the chopper down, we’re dead. And I don’t even know if we can carry that much weight.”

  “So you want to turn tail and leave all those people down there to die?”

  Joey slams his palm on his thigh and screams a long string of curse words as a stream of sweat runs down his face.

  J.J. points to a nearby ridge. “Go set her down on the ridge. Shouldn’t be as much ash up there.”

  “There’s no place to land up there.”

  “Then go hover over the fucker. Let ’em climb up to us. You can get her that close to the ground, can’t you?”

  “You’re about the craziest mother-humping son of a bitch I’ve ever met,” Joey shouts as he steers toward the ridge, where he puts the chopper in a hover.

  It doesn’t take long for those on the ground to figure it out. They hurry toward the ridge, with one injured man braced between two other men. As the others begin scrambling up the slope, a shower of rocks shoots down the slope, further slowing those with the injured man. J.J. unstraps and belly flops over the bulkhead behind them. He pushes open the back door, and a whirlwind of ash and debris nearly blinds him. He wipes his eyes and forces them open. Tears are streaming down his cheeks when he glances outside. The angry wave of fire and rock is moving like a freight train going downhill.

  The first of the climbers reaches the skid of the helicopter, and J.J. pulls a young boy aboard. One of the females hands up a smaller girl, and J.J. scoops her up and she scrambles over close to the boy. J.J. glances up at the churning wall of hell and winces. He pulls one woman aboard and then the other. Looking down, he sees the men only about halfway up the slope. He crawls over to the seat and slips on a headset. “Four down, three to go. Hold your position, Joey.”

  “We’re all going to be dead in about three minutes.”

  “Just hold your goddamn horses. I’ll get ’em in here.”

  J.J. tosses off the headset and returns to the door. The three men are closer but still some distance away. No way they’re going to make it. J.J., relatively quick for a big man, jumps from the chopper and races downhill. With a lifetime spent working in the oil fields he’s still strong as an ox, even in his sixth decade. He reaches the men, grabs the injured one, and throws him over his shoulder. “Move your ass,” he shouts, urging the men forward. Rocks and debris pepper them like angry bees.

  The roar from the approaching mass is now louder than the blades cutting through the air overhead.

  J.J. clenches his jaw and digs deep. His legs are burning and his high-dollar cowboy boots are slipping and sliding. He glances up to see the first man lunge aboard. The second appears to be waiting to help him. J.J. waves a hand and shouts, “Get in!” The man climbs in and four steps later J.J. reaches the chopper. Hands reach for the injured man as J.J. pushes aboard. He slams the door and pounds the bulkhead between the rear and the cockpit. The helicopter inches higher.

  He snags a headset and puts it on. “Go, go, go!”

  “Too heavy,” Joey groans. The helicopter rises about six feet and stops.

  J.J. triggers his mic. “Goose the damn thing, Joey.”

  Joey’s voice is strained. “Burn the engine . . .”

  “Fuck the engine. Give her everything she’s got.”

  The RPMs increase as the chopper inches higher. Then, as if unshackled from earthly bounds, the chopper shoots fifty feet into the air. Joey banks hard right and aims the nose north. J.J. wiggles back over the bulkhead and resumes his position in the copilot’s seat.

  Everyone exhales a deep sigh of relief, thankful to have escaped with their lives. Two miles north of Red Lodge, cruising at an altitude of a thousand feet, the console lights up like a Christmas parade. A buzzer sounds, followed by the wail of an alarm. J.J.’s sphincter clenches tight as Joey begins punching buttons and toggling switches.

  “What the hell’s that?”

  “Turbine flameout.”

  “What the hell is a turbine flameout?”

  “The engine’s gone.”

  “Well, shit. After all that and we’re goin’ to die anyway?”

  Joey continues with the switches before calmly latching on to the cyclic and collective. “I’m not going to let you die, J.J. I’d hate for you to miss your appointment with the proctologist.”

  “We don’t have an engine and we’re about a thousand feet in the air. You going to sprout some damn wings?”

  “I’m going to do an autorotation. Does the ground look clear below us?”

  J.J. cranes his neck to look out the window. “There’s a stand of trees to your left.”
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  Joey nudges the right pedal forward, walking the helicopter a little right. Even with the engine dead the blades continue to chop the air, as the ground grows closer. Joey shouts over his shoulder, “Brace for impact.” His feet continue to work the pedals. “Might want to hold on, J.J. We’re way heavy and I’ve only done this once before.”

  J.J. reaches for the upper handle. “Now you tell me.”

  About fifty feet from the surface, Joey lifts the nose slightly with the cyclic and lifts slowly on the collective, flaring the blades. The helicopter hits the ground with a jarring thud and settles down. Joey’s hands begin to shake uncontrollably when he removes them from the controls.

  J.J. reaches over to steady them with one of his big paws. “You did good, Joey. You can fly my damn chopper anytime you want.” He releases his grip and kicks open the door. “Are we far enough away?” he asks the group spilling out the back.

  “We should be safe from the pyroclastic flows, but this ash is falling at a rate of about a foot an hour. That and the wildfires are going to be our biggest concern. I’d feel more comfortable if we could find someplace belowground.” The man steps forward and extends his hand. “Thanks for saving our asses, J.J.”

  J.J., still holding the man’s hand, rears back in surprise, then leans forward for a closer inspection before swiveling over to look at the injured man. He begins to laugh. “Well, I’ll be damned if it’s not the fuckin’ Mayfield boys.” He releases Tucker’s hand and turns to look at one of the women and points a finger. “And you’re Jimmy Hightower’s baby girl. Jessica, isn’t it?”

  Jess nods and steps over, wrapping her arms around J.J.

  J.J. nods toward the remaining group. “Them your two kids? The ones that go to school with my grandbaby?”

  Jess steps back. “Yes. Mason and Madison. Kids, this is Hannah’s grandfather.”

  Joey walks around the front of the chopper and the crowd breaks into spontaneous applause. He blushes and offers a small wave.