The Disaster Days

by Rebecca Behrens

  Maybe when we woke up, everything would be back to normal. Power, phone, parents. For that to happen, though, I had to convince the kids that it was safe to let ourselves sleep. Even if that meant lying.

  I took one step back from them and pressed the home button on my phone so the screen lit up. Both Zoe and Oscar whipped their heads toward me and the light.

  I faked a gasp. “Guys, a text must’ve come through while we were making the fort! Your mom is finally on her way. We can stop worrying.”

  “I want to send her a text!” Zoe cried.

  I shook my head, although I’m not sure she could see me in the dark. She lunged for my phone, which I pulled back to my chest. “No, I should conserve the battery—and the connection is spotty.”

  “Then I’m going to stay up.” Zoe crossed her arms over her chest, flinching when she pressed on the bandage. She released her hands to her sides. “If she’s on her way.”

  “It’s going to be really late when she gets back,” I said. “She wants you to go to bed. How about I wake you up when she’s home?” It felt wrong to lie, especially about their mom. I wouldn’t want someone to do that to me. But I needed a break. My chest was hurting again, and my heart kept racing. No matter how deeply I tried to breathe, I couldn’t get enough air. I felt like I’d been trying to keep up with Neha on the soccer field. Lying down on the couch cushions might help.

  Zoe sighed. “Fine, I guess.”

  Holding hands, we tiptoed out of the kitchen and back into the living room. We bent down and crawled into the blanket fort, first Oscar, then Zoe, last me. Oscar curled himself around the emergency box holding Jupiter, who was quietly huddled in a corner. Zoe lay down next to Oscar. I grabbed the softer of the two remaining blankets and wrapped it around them, tucking it tightly. Burrito-style, as my dad used to say. “Okay, sleep tight. It’s going to be better in the morning.”

  “It’ll be better once Mom gets home tonight,” Zoe said, yawning.

  I winced. “Right.” I lowered myself onto the cushion and pulled the last blanket over me. It was small, barely long enough to cover my legs—and I’m pretty short. It was also scratchy, made of that knitted fabric with lots of holes. Afghans, I think they’re called. I didn’t know how warm it was going to keep me. I scooted closer to Zoe and Oscar, greedy for their body heat.

  They seemed to fall asleep in minutes. I don’t know how that was possible. My mind—and my heart—wouldn’t stop racing. I lay awake, listening. The house sounded strange. There wasn’t the hum of a single device, but it wasn’t exactly quiet. Many of the windows had shattered, and in through them wafted noises from outside. Rustling trees. The hoot of an owl. Something that howled—I hoped that was a faraway neighbor’s dog, although it would have to be really far away, because my family doesn’t have one, the Matlocks only had Jupiter, and Mr. Aranita is a cat person. Otherwise the howl came from the forest preserve. There are coyotes—and cougars and even black bears—that live in it. They’ve never bothered us before, other than sometimes leaving scat in the backyard, but that’s when we had lights and, more importantly, unbroken windows. I started thinking about the story that Zoe had been telling about the scritch-scratch shadow hunting children. Did I hear any…scratching outside? I switched from lying on my back to my side, trying to roll away from the thought.

  But my ears would not stop listening. They were vigilant. Every sound made my breath catch, before I identified it as something harmless. Wait, is that a car? I sat up, straining to hear the crunching sound, like car tires. It was so faint. Please, let someone be coming to help us. I held my breath and listened, but I couldn’t hear the noise anymore. Maybe it had only been the damage settling, or my imagination. I tried not to think of any sharp-toothed creatures that could make crunching sounds outside.

  I sank back onto the cushion. Earlier moments from the day kept replaying in my head. What had I said to my dad before I hung up the phone—“Yum, thanks”? Why didn’t I say, “Love you” or listen for a minute longer? After all, once I heard Mr. Fisk’s honk while still in the kitchen, I knew missing the bus was inevitable. Why hadn’t I given my mom that hug in the car, when I knew how she craved it?

  And why had I told Neha that I didn’t want to be her friend because of a stupid Earth Day project? She was as close to me as a sister. Even if I was a little mad or hurt right now, I still wanted to be her friend. But now those horrible words were my last message to her before…this. I swallowed hard, because I didn’t know if Neha was okay.

  Or if Zoe, Oscar, and I were going to be.

  The wind rustled something on the living room floor. I curled into a ball, hiding my head under the afghan. A tear slid out from the corner of my eye, and I was surprised by how warm it felt as it rolled down my cheek, all the way to my chin. If I had been able to see anything in the dark, I’m sure I would’ve been able to see my breath. I scooted another inch closer to the blanket cocoon encircling Zoe and Oscar.

  Everyone I loved was somewhere out there, in a dangerous new world. I hoped they were somewhere at least as safe as our blanket fort. I hoped they weren’t alone. I hoped they knew that I was thinking of them, wishing as hard as I possibly could that they were okay. That they were…alive.

  That was all I could do. Hope.

  7

  I opened my eyes and saw a beak, frighteningly close to my face. A bird’s opaque but curious eyes stared into mine. I must’ve sensed it watching me, and that stirred me awake. Or am I dreaming this? I looked to my left, then to my right. Somehow, in the night, my top half had wound up outside the blanket fort, although my legs were still tangled in the afghan and stretched across the top of the cushion nest. The bird was also outside the fort, although perhaps it wanted to come inside. It hopped toward my face, slightly too close for comfort, and I shrieked and scooted back underneath the fort. That made the bird flap its wings and attempt to fly away, but because it was in a living room and not the great outdoors, it just made panicked racetrack loops around the ceiling.

  “What’s going on?” Zoe startled to an upright position, rubbing at her eyes. On her other side, Oscar rose onto his elbows, yawning sleepily.

  “A bird just woke me up. Literally!”

  “Are you serious?” Zoe began to scoot on her hands and knees to get out of the fort, till her bandage made contact with the carpet and she winced. She switched to crab-walking out from the blanket. Oscar followed her, and so did I.

  We stood there, blinking in the bright morning light, watching the bird continue to circle the ceiling. It felt really good to see our surroundings again, but that meant we could clearly see what bad shape the living room was in. We were in a scene from a disaster movie, which I suppose made sense. Everything was overturned. Lights dangled from the ceiling. Half of the floor-to-ceiling windows facing the backyard were broken. That must be how the bird got inside. Now, it was too scared to fly back out, even though it was circling no more than a foot above a wide-open window frame. I wanted to help it.

  “Come on, bird!” I waved my arms, hoping the bird would prove the “bird brain” stereotype wrong and understand that all it had to do was fly a teensy bit lower to get to freedom. It didn’t do it.

  A fireplace broom was lying on the floor not far from where we stood. I grabbed it and walked to the edge of the room, stopping in front of another shattered window. When the bird flew my way, I tried to shoo it out with the broom. “Come on, silly bird! I’m showing you exactly where to go!” It kept circling, and then it pooped. The glob was inches from landing smack on my fleece vest.

  Zoe and Oscar dissolved into a fit of giggles. I had to admit, this was hilariously weird. I wished I could take video of the avian intruder and send it to Neha, who loved to watch funny animal videos online. Neha. All the worries came flooding back. I swung the broom down for a second, leaning over with my hands on my thighs so I could catch my breath. It had gotten even chillier in the h
ouse overnight, and cold always seems to make the breathing stuff worse for me.

  The bird buzzed past me—so close I could’ve almost touched its wings—before it passed through the window frame and finally found its way outside. I watched it cross the backyard, flapping madly, heading for the evergreens of the forest preserve. On its way home, wherever that was. I wondered if its nest would have been damaged during the earthquake, or if it had left any baby birds behind and was desperate to return to them.

  I dropped the broom and carefully walked back to the blanket fort, hugging my arms to my chest. I wore a long sleeve under my vest and thick leggings, but I was still shivering.

  “The heat was on in your house yesterday, right? Before this happened?” I motioned at the debris filling the living room.

  Oscar shrugged. Zoe looked thoughtful. “It must have been… I remember Mom turning it up when we got home after school.” Now she shivered, hugging her chest. Then her arms dropped to her sides. “Wait. Where is Mom? You said you’d wake us up when she got home!” Her tone was more panicked than accusing.

  Oh. “So, the bad news is, she’s not back quite yet—”

  Zoe interrupted before I had to come up with good news, which was a relief, because that was definitely going to have to be a big white lie. “Why not? She, she…” Zoe’s eyes welled with tears.

  “She texted after you fell asleep.” Another lie, but I had no other choice. If Zoe and Oscar thought our parents had checked in, it would be much easier to keep them calm. “She had to spend the night in Seattle…with friends,” I said. “Um, my mom is there too, but it’s okay. They’ll definitely be back before dark.”

  Zoe narrowed her eyes. “My mom said that?”

  I took a breath, then nodded. “Yup.”

  Zoe and Oscar let the news that we were still on our own sink in. I waited, hoping that they wouldn’t pout or cry. My head ached, and I hadn’t slept enough. When it seemed safe to change the subject, I said, “Well, I don’t think the heat’s on anymore.” This time of year, it’s usually in the fifties during the day. At night, the temperature drops into the forties. Without the heat on, it gets cold—and damp—really fast.

  “I know where the thermostat is,” Zoe said with a sigh, starting to pick her way through the mess to the far side of the living room.

  “Wait—I’m not sure that’s the best idea,” I said. Our house uses electric heat, and the Matlocks’ likely did the same. As long as the power was out, the heat would be too. Even if it wasn’t off because of the outage, I wasn’t sure it would be smart to try to crank it up. Fires were in the background of every earthquake movie I’d ever seen. “Why don’t you guys get back in the blanket fort, put on those sweatshirts, and I’ll grab a few coats from the closet?”

  As they dutifully crawled back inside, I swiped the emergency radio from the top of the coffee table, where I’d left it the night before. While I was away, I could sneak an update on what was happening. Hopefully, today’s broadcast would be better news, but if it wasn’t, I didn’t want Zoe or Oscar to hear. I patted the pocket of my vest, making sure my phone was still inside, in case service came back. I kept feeling phantom buzzes, and then I would optimistically press my hand to its outline through the fabric, only to feel nothing but the phone’s still, silent weight. I’d checked the volume dozens of times.

  The rest of the house was in worse shape than I remembered. Maybe yesterday when we’d walked to the bathroom, we’d been so shell-shocked that the damage hadn’t registered. Or maybe things had simply gotten worse after dark. It had been night by the time the fridge-toppling aftershock had happened. Now, in the harsh morning light, I could see that dust, possibly from plaster, covered every surface. It made me cough, and I pulled up the neck of my shirt to cover my mouth and nose as I slowly made my way down the hall. All the furniture was broken or overturned, or both. The beautiful amber-colored paint was streaked bone white in all the places where bits of wall had cracked or crumbled down. The door to the closet had flung open during the shaking, and the junk that had been inside was now strewn across the hallway floor. The staircase leading up to the second floor had lost even more “teeth.” Balusters lined the floor like I’d stumbled on the tooth fairy’s stash.

  Before trying to sort through the closet debris for coats, I needed to pee. I headed into the bathroom. Its door refused to actually shut. So much for privacy—although right then, I was alone.

  I quickly did my business. Flushing made kind of a weird sucking noise, but the bowl refilled with water, like it was supposed to. I closed the lid and sat down on top of the seat. The floor had been really crunchy when I walked in—I glanced over at the sink and saw that the mirror above the faucet had broken, shards now covering the tile floor. I should probably try to sweep that out or something, before the kids come in again.

  The lid was freezing cold against the backs of my thighs, even with my leggings on. I pulled my knees up to my chest and huddled in that position. The emergency radio was on the floor next to me. I should turn it on. I needed to turn it on, but I was afraid of what I might hear.

  It’s like ripping off a bandage. Just flip the switch, quickly. Get it over with. I yanked the antenna thingy out and turned the dial, making sure the volume was high enough so I could hear, but low enough so the sound wouldn’t carry from the bathroom back to the blanket fort.

  I held my breath as I listened to the crackle. Then a voice came in. The same one from last night. What was her name? Beth Kajawa. Only this time she sounded a lot more freaked out than she had before.

  “…is unable to estimate at this time when an update on restoration will be available. For those just tuning in, we have the latest developments in the Cascadia earthquake. The U.S. Geological Survey now estimates the initial quake as a 9.0, the first major quake in the Pacific Northwest in three hundred years, and perhaps the second strongest to hit North America. Ever. The power grid is down for the whole region, from Seattle all the way to Portland. Many cell towers have been damaged, so, as I’m sure our listeners are aware, there is little if any service. All local airports, including Sea-Tac, are closed. Ferry service is not operating. Many roads, including much of I-5, are impassable. We’re currently compiling a list of all highway and bridge closures and will get that to you as soon as possible, but as a reminder to our listeners: the Seattle Office of Emergency Management still asks that you shelter in place. There are reports of landslides, fires, and flooding, and we’re working to get you more details. Until then, if you are in a safe place—please stay there.”

  Maybe that’s why our mothers weren’t home yet; they were somewhere safe and were obeying the emergency people by staying put. But even as I tried to convince myself, deep in my heart, I knew that couldn’t be true. My mother would never “shelter in place” elsewhere if she hadn’t at least spoken to me. Andrea, I’m sure, would be the same.

  Beth Kajawa paused, letting out a barely audible sigh before she continued, “Authorities tell us they predict thousands of fatalities and tens of thousands of people injured along the Cascadia Subduction Zone. Seattle Medical Center is working to evacuate critical patients due to hospital damage. Northwest Hospital is accepting patients, we’re told.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, resisting the urge to cover my ears. “Thousands of fatalities.” I slid off the toilet seat and crouched next to it, in case I might throw up. What if our moms… I couldn’t let myself continue that thought.

  Another pause in the broadcast, during which the static crackled. I started to worry that I’d lost the signal. When Beth Kajawa spoke again, her voice was throaty and pained. “We also have an update on the tsunami.” I notched up the volume. She hadn’t mentioned that in the broadcast last night. “First, to clear up any confusion, we’re only hearing of a small amount of tsunami damage on the interior of Puget Sound, mostly to low-lying structures.” She sounded distraught, but wasn’t that good news? Seattle
was on Puget Sound. “On the coast, that is not the case. The wave hit eighteen minutes after the earthquake. The areas affected are from the ocean to approximately one mile inland, and everything—” Her voice cracked on the word. “Everything is…destroyed. All structures wiped away. The people there… I’m sorry. There’s no easy way to put this. It’s just…unimaginable.”

  My pulse thudded in my ears. I gripped the sides of the radio so hard, my knuckles turned white. The broadcast kept going, Beth Kajawa trying her hardest to sound calm and reassuring, but I couldn’t hear her words anymore, not over the buzzing in my head. The coast. Slowly, I moved one hand off the radio. I reached into my vest pocket, pulling out my phone. I opened my messages and scrolled to the conversation with Dad. I saw that picture he’d sent me, the one from the Seaspray Resort. The glistening ocean, its waves gently lapping at the sand right in front of the brand-new building. There was even a bit of Dad’s thumb at the edge of the frame, undeniable proof that he had been right there. Right where it had hit. Right where everything was destroyed. The people there what?

  I started to cry, silently even as it changed to sobs. My shoulders shook like I was in another kind of quake. Even though I was gulping in air, it wasn’t enough. My chest tightened, and it had that funny straw-like feeling again. It was making me dizzy.

  I moved the radio to the floor and clutched my phone with both hands. My fingers flew across the surface as I texted. Messages to my dad, my mom, Neha. I prayed that somehow, they’d get through.

  Dad, you have to be okay! Tell me you are!

  I really need you, Mom, please come home we’re here all alone