Quake

by K. R. Alexander

  Jackson gave up on Ramak, leaving the poor guy in peace. Most of the rest of us talked about family who weren’t in the area, all the people we had every reason to believe were okay, right now terrified that we were dead, how much we would give for one phone call, and who that person would be.

  Eventually, we couldn’t even skirt the south side of the interstate, having to scout up from the valley, which took us farther and farther from town, in exactly the opposite direction of the plateaus where we hoped to find people. Those neighborhoods and crowded newer developments with their own little cities were on the north side of I-90, very much clear of floods, but across the saltwater that now overwhelmed Lake Sammamish and filled downtown Issaquah.

  It would take all day to walk around the valley and avoid sea-level elevation, going from Cougar Mountain to Issaquah Highlands, even if we had clear trails.

  As it was, the sun was sinking, rain picking up, and the troops silent while we still struggled on the south side. Of all that disheartened us throughout the afternoon, nothing was worse than the deep quiet along with deep water. If there was even a single survivor in the valley, we detected no clue of it.

  While we walked, we licked rain water from tree leaves and didn’t talk anymore of using up our only bottle of water. We could each have a perishable waffle for dinner. Our granola bar and ketchup might be our only calories for a few more days. A sickening thought, but not as bad as the destruction that we were beginning to fail to deny. Even Jackson couldn’t bring himself to strike up a conversation after a few hours skirting the valley.

  Ramak had just said we needed to find a place for the night when Nazia whispered, “Look,” and we all froze.

  Far up the road, a young fawn bounded after a mule deer doe, tearing off into the forest as if we’d spooked her. The forest was so still, maybe we had, even at this distance.

  Jackson started forward. “Damn… A crossbow and a fire…” Shaking his head. He went on up the road, pausing to look around when he realized no one followed. “What?”

  Silence, so I ventured, “You want to shoot Bambi with a crossbow? Is that what you said?”

  “Well…” Jackson threw out his hands at his sides. “Anything that would make a quick kill. It doesn’t have to be a crossbow. But I don’t think we’re hungry enough yet to tuck in without means to cook that sucker so no difference. Just give us a few days.” With a pointed look, eyebrow arched.

  “Do you … know how to use a crossbow?” Trent asked.

  Jackson didn’t get to answer, interrupted in word and hand waving by a huge, fuzzy missile crashing into his side and hurtling both across the road, through fir trees.

  The cougar was silent as a shadow, both in its spring, huge paws crashing around Jackson’s shoulders, and its attack, biting for his face while Jackson yelled and fought back.

  I’d never heard of a mountain lion attacking a grown man like this. On the other hand, we shouldn’t be surprised if all the wildlife was behaving as screwy as all the people just now. It must have been what spooked those deer, then set its sights on rapid motions of a new solo target, not thinking twice in these crazy times.

  It was nothing like wild animal attacks in the movies, with loads of growling and yowling, spitting and leaping and lashing out. That cat nailed him, silent, and would not let go, trying to dig in with all four feet, to bite and hold on, using its weight to fling Jackson over and down the slope, through forest cracking in their wake.

  Every one of us rushed them on the instant, screaming, waving arms, snapping off branches for clubs. For a second, we couldn’t get to them as they tumbled, Jackson punching at the cougar’s face. Then Ramak clobbered it in the head with a huge stick, Trent kicked it so hard in one hip the whole hind end swung sideways off of Jackson, and Christine beat at its back with another branch, screaming like she was the one being mauled, fit to burst eardrums. I couldn’t even reach them, also ripping at a branch and yelling, before that shell-shocked cat sprang away from its would-be kill and bolted through the forest, vanishing from sight in evening gloom and trees almost as fast as it had come.

  Jackson was swearing a blue streak, clutching his shoulder, the rest of us still crowding in. I ran to kneel at his head, terrified of severed arteries or bite wounds leading to blood poisoning.

  “Jackson? Where’d it get you? Let us see—”

  “Fuck it! That fucking asshole! Did I look like a damn deer!?”

  “Probably wasn’t personal,” I panted, shaking from head to toe. “Sit up, Jackson. Let’s see your back.”

  He did, then pulled off his shirt, Ramak catching his arm, trying to steady him, while Trent grabbed my shoulders, crouching down behind. I wasn’t the only one shaking. Nazia took in deep, steadying breaths, holding onto a fir and looking in all directions for more comers. Jeff was also ready for trouble, brandishing a branch. Christine had both hands pressed to her chest, gasping, “Oh, my God,” over and over.

  “Need to clean the wounds,” Jackson said. “Oh, fuck. Infection and all that cat germ crap… Cat bites are bad, man. Only thing worse is a pig. Never turn your back on a pig, okay? Just don’t fuck with pigs. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Ramak finally said. “I swear I won’t.”

  That made me smile. Jackson didn’t think any of this was funny.

  “You’re fine,” Ramak said after a pause of more cursing at the cougar.

  “What?” Jackson looked up from wiping his brow with his shirt.

  “Look at yourself. It hardly touched you.”

  Breathing fast through his mouth, Jackson inspected his own shoulders, arms and chest. He was worth looking at. Some guys do Netflix during lockdown. Some guys do pull-ups.

  Ramak was right. Claw punctures to back and shoulder that couldn’t be too comfortable, but were no more than blood spots and bruises. A few cuts on his hands where fangs got him as he fought it off. We’d acted so fast, the mountain lion had done little more than tackle and run.

  Trent summed it up, “Dude … looks like you were the victim of a cougar drive-by.”

  I laughed a little, pure relief, and Jackson also smiled. “Yeah?” Trying to see his own back. “I guess it’s not that bad…”

  “That bruise, though, wow…” I trailed off.

  Jackson’s right side, around his lower ribs and sweeping across his back, was a massive purple and black bruise. We were all bruised up. Bruises and glass cuts tracked my arms, back, everywhere. But I didn’t have anything like this. It made me wince just looking at it.

  “It’s nothing. Open wounds are what gets you.” Jackson carefully pulled his shirt back on.

  “Looks like you have broken ribs,” I ventured, wondering about the wisdom of him being in our group.

  “Naw, it’s nothing,” he repeated, spirits already restored. “Just for a minute I thought that asshole had done some damage. I’m fine.”

  Ramak helped him up, again saying we needed to find shelter for the night.

  The alleged asshole did not return.

  Chapter 11

  Even around buildings that were only partly destroyed, windows blown out, roofs and walls cracked open, we found no one—no survivors, no power, no running water, only ghosts. Broken picture frames, dirty dishes, chewed dog toys.

  The wave had run out here, it seemed, homes having been flooded even at our elevation, but not swept away, water settling in the valley before sweeping back.

  We picked our way through a soggy mess up the stairs of a two-story house to find dry beds, although stuff hurled every which way and broken from the quake, plus all structural integrity questionable.

  We couldn’t wash, still had no heat or lights, but the medicine cabinet revealed riches with simple band-aids, rubbing alcohol, Aspirin, and more.

  Food, being downstairs in the flood zone, and power out for three days for fridge and freezer, was a greater challenge. Still seven happy looters as we found pita chips and treasures like a can of diced tomatoes and single unbroken bottle of wine. Muc
h of the food was ruined or unusable—dry rice and beans that we couldn’t cook—but we had plenty to make a feast of it with waffles.

  Trent felt through the dark pantry as the last light faded.

  He pointed out what I’d missed. “Why is there so little here? There’s no car either, did you notice? These people weren’t killed in the flood; they left.”

  We mulled over it upstairs while we ate, having been unable to find a single bottle of water, but passing around the red with tomato juice, thankful to have found the can opener. We shared waffles, organized piles as well as we could in the dark for tomorrow’s breakfast, then more to carry with us. Hopefully our unwitting hosts might have a duffle bag or backpack somewhere. And shoes? More to hunt in the morning.

  So full, I was able to think of how much I wanted a shower and toothbrush, of my family, and to puzzle over what happened here.

  It’s intense the way immediate survival blots out other thoughts and desires. Food, water, shelter, keep going, talk about something else to cope; repeat. I already trusted these people. A few days and here was family now. Fed, sheltered, after a drink, everything suddenly seemed so big. Having to squat in rubble or ferns for a pee now seemed terrible, the idea that we were probably all coming down with the virus seemed horrifying, and not having soap or toothbrush seemed seriously gross. What about other personal hygiene items? Tampons, for example? Yikes. We had to find more resources. Yet, none of this had been a big deal before the first three. Food, water, shelter. Get that and all of a sudden you have space in your mental and emotional energy bank. Without those things, you’re constantly overdrawn.

  There were only two beds and a futon upstairs so I shared with Nazia, leaving Jeff and Christine to the other, the three guys sorting out futon and floor.

  It was a relief to be able to talk with her in the morning, share worries which she understood. At the same time this new emotional space left me startled to realize how much I missed Jackson and Trent. It hadn’t felt sexy, curling up with them last night. It had felt life-saving. Food, water, shelter. Now they sounded both sexy and life-saving and I wanted them back. But not before some form of being able to wash. We’d used rubbing alcohol on our hands before the feast, which, as my grandmother would say, was better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. Still … not exactly a long soak in a jacuzzi tub.

  We were ready to go before I remembered to search for shoes. No matter how mortified I felt over the idea of stealing from someone, a sort of ultimate physical lie, I wasn’t sure I could take another step with that hiking boot.

  There wasn’t much to choose from, the spare obviously a guest room, and the lady of the house having rather large feet, but I padded with two pairs of thick socks, grit my teeth against the blisters, and laced up a worn pair of trail shoes while sitting on the dry stairs.

  Trent came to find me while everyone else was already outside, distracted with talking about how people had managed to get away from Issaquah, speculating on some sort of refugee setup already thriving in North Bend. They paused to listen to distant helicopters. We’d heard them late and early. Surely they were getting help to people in the most populace areas by now.

  “How are your feet?” Trent sat beside me. He badly needed a shave, black hair greasy and swirled like a tornado, jacket he’d found from the camping gear all rumpled up and stained. But … I don’t know. He was also beautiful.

  Were those sorts of feelings, like regret that we’d been apart last night, frivolous in times like these? Or more important than ever?

  Again, like when he’d stood there in the park with his water bottle, what seemed like months ago, I hugged him.

  Trent wrapped his arms around me in an instant, crushing.

  No better time, so I asked what my mom had always told me to ask a guy before getting too serious. “What do you hope to do with your life?”

  “Keep it going,” Trent said. “And keep yours going.”

  I pulled back to look him in the eye. Gray-green eyes, incongruous with the raven hair. “That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me. Although not what I meant.”

  “I know what you meant. I want to be a DP, make art, give voices to people and places that don’t have them, but cash in also. Make art that works commercially. It’s tough to hit that sweet spot.”

  “What’s a DP?”

  “Director of photography. He’s the guy behind the camera. I’ve never wanted a camera so bad in my life as these last days—and never not had one.”

  “I knew it. I thought you were imagining us all in your movie.”

  “You’re smiling.” He cocked his head. “You don’t mind? Wouldn’t feel exploited?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m already regretting I haven’t been tossing out great one-liners lately. I guess Jackson’s the star, though. Kind of steals the show…”

  “Hell yeah.” Trent was serious. “Can’t compete with a guy getting sucker punched by a vicious wild animal out of nowhere and calling it names. ‘Sports legend Jackson Carrel plays himself in epic battle of man versus wild.’ What really stings is that you’d spend a million bucks doing it over in CGI—what you could’ve had for free if only you had a camera in hand. I’ve been taking video of basically everything since I was knee-high to a grasshopper and now look. First time anything interesting ever happens to me.”

  “Interesting all right. You sound like my grandmother.”

  “No, that sounded like my grandmother. Want to hear the best one of my grandfather’s?”

  “Lay it on me.”

  “Well…” Suddenly shaking his head. “I can’t say it to you.”

  “Insulting? Go on. You can’t say it to anyone else either. We’re playing on the same team.”

  Trent took a breath. “Okay.” He put on the gravelly voice of a cartoon grandpa. “If brains were fuel, you couldn’t power a pissant’s motorcycle halfway around a Cheerio.”

  I cracked up. Totally lost it, bent over my knees and almost choking.

  Jackson shouted that the headcount was coming up short.

  Trent called back that we were on our way.

  I clutched his shoulder, sputtering while Trent grinned. “I’d have liked your grandparents.”

  “You totally would have.” Then he sighed. “But … just as well they didn’t live to see the virus and now…”

  “Armageddon?” I wiped my streaming eyes. “Why is the world trying to kill us?”

  “The world doesn’t have it in for us any more than that cougar. Just doing its thing, here with floods and tectonic plates, humanity stumbling along, making itself sick. All we have to do is be smarter and faster and lucky and … maybe we’ll survive it.”

  “Maybe we’ll beat it, you mean. Survive sounds so passive. Maybe we’ll win. Maybe we’ll…”

  Trent was close, lips on mine before I’d really noticed he was leaning in. I jerked back with an involuntary gasp.

  “Sorry.” He jumped to his feet.

  “No, I didn’t—”

  “We have to go—”

  “Trent, stop.” I scrambled after him. “You startled me.” I just managed to catch his arm before he could dart down the stairs. I’m so not into the big misunderstanding or brooding over something that didn’t even happen thing. It’s like another sort of lying, like emotional blackmail on yourself or others. “Don’t run out on me.”

  My tone, as much as the jerk at his wrist, stopped him. He met my eyes.

  “You surprised me. And I’m gross and haven’t brushed my teeth in four days. We need each other. We’ve never needed closeness so much. Don’t run off. What are you upset about?”

  Trent shook his head, looked away, then back. No screen to hide behind. I could practically taste the discomfort of performing in his own scenario pouring off him, nerves tingling.

  “I never thought I’d have a shot with a woman like you. You’re way too classy to give me the time of day. And now … the park and tsunami and here, and it’s all batshit crazy
that that’s what it takes and now it’s like … I don’t know what to do. Like … I could be totally all over you right now, but that would be epically taking advantage of the situation. We’re just, you know…”

  “Stop talking like a teenage girl.” I didn’t say it with a tone, wasn’t upset with him, just bemused for other reasons, but Trent turned scarlet. This is why I like a guy who’s at least a couple years older than me. All the same, he was pretty cute.

  “Hey!” Jackson stepped into the doorway downstairs.

  “One minute, Jackson. We’ll be right there.” I turned attention back to my blushing cinematographer and gripped his hand. “Listen to me. I have no idea where you’re getting that stuff. I’m from a hardworking, middle-America family. If I come across on campus as snobbish or classy or out of anyone’s league, that’s so not my intention. But I really don’t think I do. I think you’ve got a big old falling down the stairs crush, and you’re projecting onto me. Look at me.” Waving my free hand up and down my own body. “I’m one of those girls everyone knows. Brown hair, hazel eyes, not tall, not short, even-keeled, hanging with friends, serving coffee, reading novels. Pretty easy to get along with … I think? That’s part of why I’m so into reading and journalism and went with this English and communications direction for school. Other people’s lives are more interesting than mine. I’m sorry you’re uncomfortable, but being slightly younger and in different classes was your own mental barrier to never approaching me. We could’ve been friends all along—or more, I don’t know. Don’t get all weird just because I jumped at a kiss, okay?”

  “Yeah, I mean no… Brook, you’re beautiful. You shouldn’t put yourself down.”

  “And you shouldn’t build pedestals.” I smiled. “But thank you, Trent. That’s nice of you to say—especially since I feel the opposite right now.”

  He grinned and ran a hand down his own face, scratching at the scruffy stubble. “I feel gross too. I’m usually…”

  “Hand-washer?”

  “Definitely a hand-washer.”