The Yellowstone Conundrum

by John Randall

  “I can’t reach it!” she shouted, upset at being short in a tall world.

  Cam opened the door and in one effort hoisted her up and over the difficult one-two steps, his right hand “accidentally” finding purchase on her right butt cheek. She gave a woman-shriek and found herself in the passenger seat. Cam closed the door, re-circled and got back into the cab.

  The GPS lady had decided to consult her elders because she still reported recalculating.

  “Thank you,” she said simply, covering a lot of thank-yous. “I’m Betsy Jamison,” she held out her tiny hand. Her face started to contort into wrinkles with tears ducts full, ready to empty.

  Cameron could do nothing but wrap her into his arms. Betsy began to weep, and then weep uncontrollably, to the point of getting Cam’s shirt wet and snotty. Her small chest heaved back and forth. A good fifteen minutes went by before she was able to pull away. There was nothing Cam could say about the accident, the terrible deaths, why any or all of this happened. In his rear view mirror Cam could see the leading edge of the black cloud slowly advancing toward the sunshine they enjoyed; maybe, but maybe it was slowing. For sure it was moving south.

  With all of the choices to the west and south eliminated, bearing east and even north were possible choices. Which meant stay on state route 387 should have been the GPS response.

  “I’m Cameron Hedges. I’m a long-distance driver. I have no home other than this rig. I was married but, I’m not married now and I don’t have any kids,” he admitted. “I haven’t always been a good man, and I’ve wasted a lot of my life,” tears started to come to Cameron. There was a small pause. “But, I’m going to take care of you, Betsy Jamison.” Like a man, he held back the tears, even to the point where his head hurt.

  “Thunder Basin National Grassland,” the GPS responder replied out of the blue. “Seventy-two miles ahead on Wyoming State route 387. No locations in database.”

  They were indeed in the middle of fucking nowhere.

  Geologic Seismic Science Center

  Golden, Colorado

  By mid-morning eight employees of the United States Geological Survey had managed to arrive at the Seismic Science Center on the campus of Colorado School of Mines; in addition to Nancy; I/T Director Herb Propst, scientists Amy Bridges and Albert Frohling; DOI Accounting Specialist Alma Bevins, and research intern Janet Diamond, both of whom arrived just after Herb, and just ahead of the earthquake.

  At nine-thirty a bedraggled pair of scientists, Jerry and Gerrie Grant arrived on campus, eschewed parking behind the building and took the first available spot out front; right in the middle of no-no land, parking-wise. The brother and sister research team, both 38 years old, both with Ph.Ds from Cal Tech in Quarternary geochronology, were brilliant scientists but could absent-mindedly freeze to death arguing a moot point by not wearing a coat on a cold winter’s day. Truly the Odd Couple, in a role-reversal, Jerry was Felix and Gerrie was Oscar. With adjoining workstations, double-sized due to the nature of their difficult research, by agreement the dividing line between their desks was a precicely-drawn chaulked line on the tight carpet, stretching from the outside wall to an invisible point in the hallway that passed both desks.

  Their arguments over lithospheric-scale deformation and interpretation of Quaternary fault records were legendary within the agency. Referred to as Los Dos Jerries or Las Dos Gerries, the pair lived together in a century-old farmhouse, in the city and county of Bloomfield, north of Denver; unusual people living in an unusual county; Broomfield became Colorado’s 64th county when the citizens petitioned state government to solve the problem of one city being part of four differernt counties, each with its own set of rules from land development to trash pickup.

  Go talk to the hippies. Which one? The clean one. The Grants had meet Steve Jobs in the late ‘90s; Jerry repelled by the computer and marketing guru’s health habits, Gerrie attracted to it.

  Walking around the debris from the fallen sections of outside “skin” of the USGS building, now an ugly building with a chickenpox complexion.

  “It took us an hour to get here from Arvada,” a western suburb of Denver, tucked in between Lakewood and Westminster,” started Gerrie, whose pale skin was accentuated with strings of long, dark hair; which was in its fifth unwashed day. Without thinking, she scratched at several spots where her scalp was sending wash-me alerts.

  “Is there any coffee?” Jerry asked, receiving duh, are you kidding me looks from the group.

  “There’s no electricity, Jerry,” Nancy added, shaking her head.

  “Oh, yeah. Forgot,” Jerry replied, his long dark hair neatly combed over, left-to-right.

  “My babies! I can’t get home to my babies! All the roads are blocked.” She suddenly started to cry, both from the harrowing drive and the prospect of not being able to get back home to the century-old farmhouse they bought together ten years ago, and the brood of cats that slept in every possible spot within the old home. Sometimes Gerrie would come to work wearing a different scent, essence of cat litter.

  “We take Wadsworth south to 70; if the traffic is light we can get home in 30 minutes,” Jerrie added, referring to the heavily-used N/S highway four miles west of I-25, named for Benjamin Franklin Wadsworth, first postmaster of the town of Arvada. “We just missed it,” Jerrie continued. “The earthquake hit and the entire roadbed of the Boulder Turnpike collapsed, right onto the intersection. We’d just passed through it! If the light had been red, we’d be buried!”

  “We tried turning around, finding another way, but there was debris everywhere; two gas stations on fire; power out—no lights, snow on the ground, slippery roads, accidents everywhere,” Jerry paused to take a breath, then added. “Is there any coffee?”

  “No!” the other six said in unison; Gerrie was alone in her workspace, her brain had hit a dead end and her gearshift had slipped to neutral.

  What the group wasn’t ready for was for Gerrie to start to wail and begin to cry uncontrollably. No one knew how to console the very intelligent, but stinky lady; so, no one did. Gerrie Grant started to cry uncontrollably.

  Nancy looked around at the others. The total effect was surreal; events were happening that didn’t make any sense.

  “After all the shit happened, we managed to get south to I-70; all we had to do was go five exits, eight miles; away from everything. But, no. It didn’t happen. Every block we went there were familiar buildings, but they were damaged. People were out on the street! You’re not supposed to be out on the street! It’s a fucking earthquake!”

  Jerry Grant was about to freak.

  He walked across no-man’s land and gave his sister Gerrie in a hug that had more feeling than Nancy or the others could understand. Gerrie continued to cry and mutter my babies.

  Here were two senior scientists whose universe(s) had been turned upside down. Hell had visited Arvada, Bloomfield and Westminster, Colorado.

  A creepy feeling crawled up Nancy O’Brien’s soft pantleg, tickled her thigh and went woo in her panties.

  “Downtown Denver is a mess,” said Jerry. “The I-70/Golden Parkway interchange has collapsed. We were able to get off at Ward Road, head north to 52nd Ave, then down to 50th, to county 193,” Jerry was waving his hand at an imaginary map. “Then get back on 58, which was empty outbound because the interchange collapse at I-70; then downtown to Washington Ave., and back here. It’s horrible out there!

  “Ok, since no one knows what the hell is happening, I suggest we circle the wagons and figure out where we stand,” Nancy started. “There are eight of us. One hundred people aren’t here this morning because of the earthquake. It’s weird, but the only people with family connections here are Jerry and Gerrie; and they have each other, they’re “family”. Until we figure out what’s going on, I think we need to think of ourselves as family,” Nancy walked back and forth, trying to think. There was no management manual to offer suggestions. The best solution would come from the heart.

  “I need two volu
nteers to scout out the surrounding area on campus. I assume everyone else is like us, but let’s find out.” Research Assistant Janet Diamond, 23, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed; tanned, thinly athletic, blond, a grad student at Mines raised her hand. So did her opposite; Alma Bevins, 44, black-skinned, perpetually tired with changing busses three times just to get to work. The two women looked at each other, gave each other the high-sign and headed out.

  “Twenty minutes, ladies,” shouted Nancy, who received two thumbs up. She turned to her perpetual employee, Herb Probst.

  “What do you think, Herb?

  “I think it doesn’t matter if the power comes back on or not; there’s nothing here that will be of immediate value. We’re probably fifteen mil in the hole right now; a lot of good stuff will have to be re-built. It would take my entire staff along with the program managers, the scientists, the programmers—months to recover and restart. There are some things we can try to save, but overall we’re just screwed.”

  “So, we don’t need to waste time,” Nancy tried to come to a conclusion.

  “Affirmative,” replied Herb.

  She turned to the others. “Let’s secure what we have; first your area, then the area of someone who isn’t here. By secure, I mean get the critical data—projects—paperwork of your friends who aren’t here. Secure the computers. Bring the laptops to Herb’s desk. I’ll check to see if the building is still secure. That should keep us busy,” Nancy instructed.

  Two hours passed; Alma and Janet reported back that the campus of the Colorado School of Mines had taken a big hit. They’d walked to Golden High School, which was partially collapsed; then back up Ford Street to the 58 expressway (Golden Freeway); the Washington Avenue crossing of the same freeway had collapsed. Students on campus were milling about and it appeared as if Sigma Phi Epsilon and Phi Gamma Delta had already started an earthquake party.

  It was research assistant Janet Diamond, 24, 5’5’ and neatly overdressed who came up to Nancy, a worried look on her face.

  “Miss Nancy,” she started, clearly uncomfortable.

  It was the girl’s look on her face that stopped Nancy in her tracks

  “I’m on the fourth floor; can you come and look?”

  “What is it? Janet, is that your name?” Nancy asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. You just need to come,” the pretty young woman replied.

  Nancy followed the girl; no more than a size 4 with a wiggle Nancy knew drew men like ants on honey. Up the stairwell they went to the fourth floor.

  “Janet?”

  “Follow me, ma’am. Please,” the girl led the way through the darkened fourth floor to the eastern side of the building, where she opened a door to an office that had been barricaded because the outer skin of the building had flaked off during the earthquake.

  Nancy stepped into the office; Janet came in behind her.

  “Damn,” Nancy muttered under her breath.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Janet agreed.

  Looking directly east, the sky to the north was black; not grey, but black. The sky directly east was blue. Above were thin layers of black fingers, reaching out for anything to the south. It was spooky enough to make you poop in your panties.

  The clouds were moving quickly, fast enough to see the distance covered between blinks.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Nancy repeated.

  “I wish He was here, ma’am; because I sure don’t know what to do.”

  “Join the crowd, Janet,” Nancy muttered.

  From a desk someplace in the darkness of the fourth floor came the screech of a weather radio, an annoying, unnerving sound.

  FROM THE NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE HEADQUARTERS IN SILVER SPRING MARYLAND. AT 7:20 MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME AN 11.2 EARTHQUAKE STRUCK YELLOWSTONE NATIONAL PARK ACCOMPANIED BY A CATESTROPHIC SERIES OF VOLANIC EXPLOSIONS, WHICH HAS SENT VOLCANIC ASH TO STRATISPHERIC LEVELS. THE ERUPTIONS CONTINUE AND ARE EXPECTED TO CONTINUE WITH NO PROJECTED END TIME. CONCURRENT WITH THE YELLOWSTONE ERUPTION SEATTLE WASHINGTON HAS BEEN STRUCK WITH A 9.45 EARTHQUAKE AND SUBSEQUENT TSUNAMI ON PUGET SOUND, INFLICTING SIGNIFICANT DAMAGE TO INFRASTRUCTURE. I-90 AND I-5 ARE CLOSED AS IS THE MOUNT BAKER TUNNEL. THE SEATTLE HARBOR FRONT HAS BEEN DESTROYED.

  REPEATING>>>>

  Once the first message was repeated, the NOAA synthetic voice went to the second bulletin in its incredibly annoying artifical sound.

  RESIDENTS OF EASTERN AND CENTRAL WYOMING, NORTHERN AND EASTERN COLORADO ARE URGED TO SELF-EVACUATE AWAY FROM THE ADVANCING CLOUD OF VOLCANIC ASH; I-80 EAST OF CHEYENNE TOWARD NEBRASKA, I-70 FROM DENVER BOTH EAST AND WEST, I-76 FROM DENVER TO NEBRASKA, I-25 SOUTH. THE ASH CLOUDS ARE EXPECTED TO BE HEAVY AND ARE LIFE-THREATENING. VISIBILITY ZERO. REPEAT VISIBILITY ZERO. CURRENTLY THE LEADING EDGE OF THE CLOUD IS APPROACHING THE WYOMING-COLORADO BORDER AND IS APPROXIMATELY 75 MILES WIDE AND IS MOVING AT APPROXIMATELY 150 MILES PER HOUR.

  DO NOT REPEAT DO NOT SEEK LOCAL SHELTER IN THE PATH OF THE CLOUD. RESIDENTS ARE URGED TO SELF EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY. REPEATING THIS MESSAGE.

  “What are we going to do, Miss Nancy?” Janet asked.

  Thunder Basin National Grassland

  Campbell County, Wyoming

  Cameron pulled the rig to a slow stop. Betsy gave him a non-verbal “what’s up?” with her eyes.

  “Just stoppin’, I guess. I’m not sure where I am.”

  “Well stomping Jesus on a stick, I just met me the first man in my life who admitted he didn’t know where the fuck he was!” her voice was filled with genuine laughter, the twang in her voice from Texas or Tennessee. She started to laugh hard and long, enough to bring tears to her eyes. After a minute Cameron started to laugh as well. It had been a tough morning. It was obvious God was giving Betsy a break; her tears of an hour ago a release that allowed her to compartmentalize, something women do very well, sometimes to extreme.

  They’d been driving for an hour and hadn’t seen another living soul. Eastern Wyoming approaching the Nebraska border was West Texas with four inches of rain and about three feet of snow more, the bare minimum to grow grass instead of dust. It was beautiful country, all sky. Here was the earth and above it was the sky—nothing to get in the way of either.

  In the far distance they could see what they thought were farm homes, set miles off of the highway; most on the other side of locked gates. Apparently, people liked their privacy.

  The further he went on state 387 the more worried Cam became. The black cloud continued to drift eastward and southward. It was the eastward part that he didn’t care for much. The first intersection in an hour had been twenty minutes ago, state route 50; forty miles due north was Gillette. His instinct told him north wasn’t a good idea—also; his gas tank wasn’t thrilled with the idea, either.

  Thunder Basin National Grassland

  “Miss Betsy, we’re going to need a town up ahead. I didn’t fuel up last night. Be on the look-out for a gas station,” Cam turned to his diminutive passenger and gave her his best oh-shit cover-up smile. She didn’t see the oh-shit behind his mask. Cam’s shoulders hurt real bad; not used to the exercise. His legs felt like two telephone poles stuck in hardened concrete. He could tell from Betsy’s eyes that she was exhausted. Tiger Kitty didn’t bat an eye.

  “This might be a real town, Miss Betsy,” Cam’s hopes picked up. The sign said welcome to Wright, Wyoming, elevation 5000 feet; kind of an oddity, wasn’t it; five thousand feet; exactly. Another 280 feet and they could have called themselves the Mile High City. But, it wasn’t just the sign that was encouraging. Not all the homes were trailers like in Edgerton and Midwest; streets south of 387 were regular with street lamps and curbs; small, but nice. There were ads for the Exxon station and the Wright Inn, even a modern little strip mall.

  Exxon, there’s the ticket Cam thought.

  Even though they were at high elevation, there wasn’t a tree to block a whisper of a breeze. Cam imagined how the wind had to feel; hard, bitter, like a nasty dog taking a chomp on your ears. To his right he saw a fairly large group of people
in the parking lot, two blocks across the brushy weeds from 387; he turned to the right and approached. The closer he got into the neighborhood, the more real the damage from the earthquake.

  The roof of the Wright Town Hall had fallen in; thankfully, too early for Gladys Holt who was the receptionist and office manager for the city, population 1440. A group of people were in the parking lot, standing around the statue of a bison which until 7:20 this morning had been standing on a five-foot high concrete trapezoid. The bison had reacted poorly to the morning’s shakers; now lay on its side with a hole punched through its left foreleg where it fell onto the ground.

  A man approached his driver’s side, concern and doubt written on his face; behind it was fear.

  “How is it?” the man asked. He was dressed in a blue flannel shirt, black vest and wore a black cowboy hat that was perfect for him. Even though it was a cold morning and the sun was rising, the man didn’t look like he was cold; he just looked so damn cool. I’ve never for one single day in my life looked as cool as this guy; not an hour in a single day Cam thought; Wright, Wyoming written on his forehead; bison, ranching, mining, Republican, four kids, Ford trucks.

  Cam brought the truck to a growling stop.

  “I need gas.” was Cam’s first response.

  Cool cowboy, 42 shook his head. “We don’t have any power. The Exxon is the only station in town. Gas is in the tank but there’s no power to get it up; the station doesn’t have any emergency power. No power and no phones. We can’t get connected to anyone; tried over and over. No luck. Can’t even pull in the emergency weather channel; never seen anything like it.”

  Cam put the truck into safe neutral and got out, his bones hurting from stem to stern. Betsy stayed inside the cab.