by John Randall
Three of the trapped workers returned to their respective cars and began to wiggle forward toward the kiosk. “If mine gets wrecked, you’re with me!” one worker shouted to another. Andy was at the tail end of the mass of cars. Assured of a ride out of there, the man in the lead car—a Ford 150 truck—began to inch his way around the left side of the gate, on the side of the kiosk—until his bumper was touching the little building. Another car followed behind him.
“Extensive property damage has been reported—from Denver to Rapid City to Vancouver, British Columbia, south to Portland, Reno and Salt Lake City, all of which have sustained significant damage; infrastructure—bridges, highways, railroads, telephone lines, cell phone towers, all damaged.”
The guard turned and shouldered his rifle.
“You can’t shoot us. We’re like you! We’re trapped. You’re trapped. You’re going to die if you don’t get the hell out of here!” the crowd behind the lead trio of cars shouted. The cars inched closer and began to bump against the kiosk. Several drivers in the two rows behind the front three got out of their cars and started advancing toward the guard.
“Back off! Back off, now!” the guard shouted.
“Get him!” someone shouted. The lead car slammed into the kiosk, hard, accelerator down.
The guard pulled the trigger, sending a quick burst of three 5.56 shells directly into the Ford-150, virtually blowing the driver’s head off his body, instantly spraying blood, bone and guts across what was left of the windshield, shattered glass everywhere.
The driver of the second car ducked as the second pulse of bullets shattered his windshield; the car lurched forward and smashed the kiosk door. The guard couldn’t pull his finger off the trigger. Blaaapp—blaaapp—blaapp. Eight workers were downed in less than five seconds; three cars were no longer had feet pressing on brakes, accelerators instead. The cars lurched forward, the second truck smashed through the barrier gate and onto the desert floor, then staggered toward state highway 240, out of control.
“In Montana the Fort Peck dam has breeched. The Missouri River is flowing eastward unabated. South of Yellowstone the Jackson Dam has collapsed and water is flooding the Snake River basin.
“A significant portion of the electricity generated in the United States comes from hydroelectric facilities in the Northwest. As a result, power is out in all sectors of the country as electric companies try to re-build their local power grids.
“In the next days and weeks it is highly probable that there will be flooding along the Missouri and Snake rivers that will be Biblical in proportion; from Montana to New Orleans, from Idaho Falls to Portland.
“How long will the power be out? We don’t know.
“How long will the volcano continue to erupt? We don’t know.”
Andy lay prone on the macadam, bullets spraying all around him. The guard had flipped; glass, bodies, cars, bodies everywhere. Two men tried to run into the desert but the guard took careful aim and easily gunned them down.
The only sounds came from the loudspeakers.
“And, my fellow Americans, there is no Plan A or Plan B for a catastrophe of this magnitude. As of thirty minutes ago I have directed the Joint Chiefs of Staff to coordinate with Secretaries of the Army, Navy and Air Force to explore any and all possible solutions, to divert all possible military manpower and equipment to assist the various states in maintaining the safety of our citizens.
“State liaisons have been established at the White House to make sure communications is open and that information flows quickly.
“On January 20, 1961 John F. Kennedy stated in his inaugural address ‘ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.’ No truer words have been spoken. One of the lessons we learned from Katrina was that in times of adversity, when people and governments are overwhelmed; responsibility shifts back to the individual.
“Don’t wait for the power to come back on. Join with your neighbors to solve local problems at the local level. You and your neighbors need to do what is right. We are still a nation of law-abiding citizens. Given the magnitude of this event, it is unreasonable for you to expect government will solve your problems. Each of you must be involved.”
There was a pause before he spoke again.
“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation—under God—with liberty and justice for all.” He ended with a soft “Amen.”
Another pause.
“I will be back to you in six hours with an update.”
The President’s announcement concluded with the playing of Kate Smith’s version of God Bless America.
“God bless America
Land that I love
Stand beside her, and guide her
Through the night with a light from above
A single pulse of three shells ripped through the guard’s head as he realized what he’d done; the muzzle of his M16 fell to the floor of the kiosk as the bullets ripped his head off, spraying brain matter through the ceiling.
From the mountains, to the prairies
To the oceans white with foam
God bless America, my home sweet home!
God bless America, my home…sweet…home!
Words and music by Irving Berlin, 1938
The beautiful, iconic voice trailed off; replaced with static.
Andy Everett stood up and looked around. The static from the loudspeakers stopped. Death and destruction was everywhere. Behind him to the north the red clouds had started to spread death into central Washington State. In order to go south, he’d have to return to Richland; no way would he be there. The city had been destroyed by the earthquake and was now in full panic mode as the radioactive debris from the 200-West and 200-East tank farms spewed death into the air.
Andy hopped into his Jeep and carefully drove around bodies and wrecked vehicles out onto state highway 240. West was the only option.
God bless America, land that I love. That was the President of the United States. What he said.
BOOK 2--AFTERNOON
chinka, chinka, chinka
Cody, Wyoming
“Daddy, are you OK? Talk to me, please. (girl’s voice) Oh, God—please make it stop…Daddy!. (sound of destruction)…
It turned out that Anne Hastings, Director of FEMA and David Jackson, Secretary of the Department of Interior were wrong. The NOAA station in Cody, Wyoming was manned.
The little girl was named Laurie. She was six years old and thrilled to “go to work” with her daddy that morning. Her father, Jason Rivers, 37, was on contract to NOAA to monitor the automated equipment at the Cody weather station, located 4 miles south of the center of Cody proper and a mile south of Yellowstone Regional Airport on state route 120 at an elevation of 5,396 feet. The station was approximately ninety miles due east of the epicenter of the 11.2 magnitude earthquake.
The airport at Cody along with all of the hotels and eateries had been flattened then shaken and stirred at 7:20. Laurie’s daddy had been killed instantly when the roof of the NOAA structure collapsed; Laurie being saved by her father’s intuition to tuck her close to her in the seconds before the structure had collapsed.
“Daddy, are you OK? Talk to me, please. Oh, God! Please make it stop, Daddy!” little Laurie had shouted. In an instant the building had collapsed; Laurie buried under her father, but safe for the moment; but cold. The weather in Cody was a dangerous minus 4 degrees F.
Laurie stood up and was slapped by a cold wind, her curly blond hair, uncut since birth, whipped around her. To the north, smoke rose from broken gas lines in Cody; beyond rose 8,000 foot-tall Heart Mountain, visible across a nearly treeless expanse. Tears streaming, Laurie poked at her daddy but intuitively understood that he was dead.
To the west the smoke monster gobbled the sky, the blue of the morning light stained ominously black. By 8:30, Laurie felt the first chinka-chinka-chinka of volcanic ash begin to drop everywhere. Breathing bec
ame more difficult. Slowly, the smoke monster wrapped Cody and environs into its arms; to the east the sun was shining in Greybull and Thermopolis, but not for long.
The jet stream was about 125 miles wide and roaring along at 150 miles per hour. Nature was dealing the cards this morning; go north or go south, pick your poison, but you’d better hurry.
By 9:00 Cody was covered with a blanket of black ash. Directly downwind from the eruption it would be only a matter of days before it would be buried as deeply as Pompeii by Vesuvius. Little Laurie Rivers lay tucked in her dead daddy’s arms until it was her turn.
Red Lodge, Montana
Penny was exhausted. Normally, highway 212 cleared Beartooth Pass on the Montana/Wyoming border at 10,900 feet, and then in a space of ten miles switch-backed its way down to the village of Red Lodge, altitude 5,555; the views back up the Rock Creek Canyon toward Thunder Mountain and Mount Rearguard were treeless and spectacular.
Behind her to the south the Death Cloud billowed; bright sunshine and blue sky straight ahead to the north. Stopping to catch her breath, she took a swig from her Nalgene water bottle, and was rewarded with a small cut on her tongue from the sharp edge of ice that had formed inside the bottle. The death cloud now covered the horizon behind her in 180 degrees; up close and personal. There were no puffy cumulus clouds; no rain, just death inside them. With some hard skiing in the last two hours, she’d managed to put a little bit of distance between It and her, referring to the cloud as if it were a real monster. She couldn’t shake the chinka-chinka-chinka sound from her head.
The top of Beartooth Pass was no longer visible, lost in the black carbon shower of soot; pure white show now covered with a thin layer of black.
Jimmy couldn’t make it, but you can. Get out of here!
She turned and started to quickly descend from the ridge, flying down the canyon, tucked in tight; down to where US 212 cut a clear path into the mountain, albeit covered with 60 inches of packed powder.
Thighs aching and lungs burning, Penny shot down Rock Creek Canyon, knowing sometimes she was skiing directly over the creek itself. The assumption the snowpack would hold was a dangerous one; she was well aware of the presumed loss of Sequoia National Park ranger Randy Morgenson when on July 21, 1996 he was reported missing; a 64-year old ranger missing? Two years later his boots and pieces of a backpack were found in a side stream west of Bench Lake in Kings Canyon. The assumption was he’d fallen through the snow, back pack on and had been trapped in the cold swift waters of the creek, unable to move. He’d simply drowned; then his body eaten by wolves.
Penny hoped that if the snow gave way her speed of descent would save her, at worst a tumble. It didn’t matter. I’d rather be eaten by wolves. She didn’t want to die from the Black Smoke Monster.
Travel throughout the West and notice that towns don’t sit high on bluffs; only retiring Easterners with more money than brains build new homes having wide, expansive views. Western towns in the Dakotas, Montana, Wyoming, and Nebraska all are built to protect the settlers from the relentless prairie wind, and have been built that way since the land was first settled.
As a result, towns were built in ravines, low-lying areas between low hills. Ever notice how the temperature goes up when you step around a corner on a cold, raw, windy day? It’s the wind chill.
Red Lodge, Montana was like that, built on flat land in a wide ravine, with picturesque Rock Creek flowing down the center. The ravine was about a mile wide and protected the town from the relentless wind.
Was.
At most seven blocks wide (EW) and twenty blocks long (NS), the town owed its primary existence to fame as being at the NE entrance to Yellowstone National Park-at least the Montana entrance; that and a modest ski area, some interesting bars that one visitor called “a hoot”. Reality was Red Lodge was as American a town as could be found. Nestled in the 7-block wide town were three grocery stores, three schools, a couple of motels, and the small shops with honest hard-working people, businesses handed down from one generation to the next. While Big Sky might not have been invented here, it was close. Aspens lined Rock Creek, which flowed heavily in the spring runoff—but there were always the fish; tasty trout.
On the hill west of town was the airport, with facilities for the jet-set winter and summer folks who marveled at the sky, the expanse, how clear the air was, and how you could see forever. Politics in Red Lodge centered on farming and tourism. High School graduates tended to stay and work in the area. In other words, Red Lodge, Montana could have been rural Indiana or Texas.
Oh—my—God.
Penny stopped skiing a mile above town. Highway 212 had been plowed up to Perry’s RV and Campground, but afterwards it would just have to wait until the spring melt.
The town of Red Lodge was completely destroyed. Bring in the bulldozers and cave in the hillsides on either side. Ninety-five percent of the homes in Red Lodge were built of either clapboard and/or wood. Why wood? Duh, there’s this huge national forest.
The church with the blue roof, the seven blocks by twenty blocks of neat two- and three-bedroom, one-bath, post WWII early 50s homes, the High School (go Rams, not Redskins) and the brand new gym, the log cabin with the green roof on Park Avenue, the airport—all destroyed. Fires rose from various places across town and had created a layer of smog in the pristine valley. Red Lodge, Montana couldn’t have been destroyed any worse if the government had dropped bunker busters. The frame buildings were sticks. A tornado couldn’t have done better destruction. The old high school, now an elementary school, a smallish three-story brick building was a pile of bricks; two cast iron stairways led from the first floor to the third; now were stage props for Stairway to Heaven; the roof had collapsed as had the second and third floor; the exterior now a ten-foot wide mound of reddish-brown bricks around the circumference.
By the time Penny got to town she was carrying her skis and had a double set of backpacks; oblivious to the weight. Her legs were rubbery. Uphill and behind her the Black Death Monster hung over the mountain tops, clinging like a spider creating a web. The mountains themselves—always weather-creators—were helping to prevent the northward movement of the volcanic ash, which now spread all across the southern horizon.
Penny stared back up toward Beartooth Pass. The top of the mountain was shrouded in black. The upper level winds had shifted a touch; Black Death was moving northward.
Walking north on South Broadway, car after car had been crushed by falling buildings; the Montana Candy Emporium sign now lay in the middle of the street, incredibly the handmade chocolates sign intact. The building had once been the town’s movie house; now the home-made Squirrel Nut Zippers, Black Jacks, Fizzies and Walnettos were buried in rubble.
Is everyone dead?
Across the street Moosely Tees shirts and souvenirs was out of business; further down the street the historic Pollard Hotel, with its old-fashioned lobby and restaurant with linen tablecloths had been refurbished, its rooms renovated; now the corner of North Broadway was a litter of bright red bricks. It was doubtful any fly fishermen or skiers were alive.
In the old, old part of Red Lodge ninety percent of the buildings were built of brick, none to current earthquake code. The further away from downtown the buildings were made of wood, much cheaper to build than brick.
There was sound of people talking to her left; she turned and followed the noise.
Hi, I’m Penny Anderson. I skied over Beartooth this morning and left my boyfriend to die on the other side because the nasty smoke monster wouldn’t let me haul him up to the top of the pass and so I left him to fucking die.
The eyes of the locals she met were vacant; their houses were destroyed, town gone. They looked at Penny like she’d just come in on the morning rocket ship from Mars. The first group she met included a worn man in his 50s, maybe 60s, looking like a re-incarnation of the Marlboro man before he died of lung cancer. Behind him stood a ragged group of elderly men and women, each with The Look on their face; it w
as tryout time for Night of the Living Dead.
“Are you it?” Penny asked.
“On this side of town,” said one woman.
“Everybody else over here is dead,” said a sad woman in her early 60s, shaking her head. “I was outside picking up the newspaper,” she started, referring to the Billings Reporter. “Just lucky,” then she started to cry, then blubber. “And the earthquake happened, destroyed everything; knocked me on my ass.”
Penny looked at the sad group.
She turned to the mountains behind her. “See that cloud?”
The Living Dead looked at the menacing cloud formation, then at each other, then back at Penny.
“Everything is fucked,” he replied simply.
“It’s a death cloud. You can’t breathe. If it comes here you’re going to die,” Penny explained. “You need to get out of here!”
The Living Dead looked at each other.
“I was going to have some breakfast,” the woman added.
“The hotel’s down,” said another.
“We need to get out of here!” Penny wanted to jump and down and slap these people around, then as quickly came to a different conclusion; to hell with them. It was déjà vu all over again; the Jimmy Solution. She changed pronouns; I need to get out of here. “Does anybody have a car I can use?” This was met with empty stares. “Where is everybody?” she asked, with urgency in her voice.
“High School,” the tall, skinny dude pointed to the opposite side of town, six blocks away. In rural America everything revolved around the High School. It made sense in an emergency that it would be the point where people would rally.