I reach over and touch my clothes. They’re mostly dry now, so I put them back on. They can finish drying while I’m wearing them. Being dressed again makes me feel a little bit better—there’s nothing to make a person feel more vulnerable than being naked, or even partly naked.
The physical and emotional stresses of the day have taken their toll on me. I’m beginning to grow drowsy, which is just fine with me. Sleep will be a good way to pass the time. Maybe everything will look better under the light of day. Heck, maybe I’ll still discover this has all been a bad dream.
I add two logs to my fire and then pile up a bit of sand to serve as a pillow for my head. I put my machete where I can quickly reach it—just in case—then stretch out upon my side with my back to the fire. In moments, I’m fast asleep.
CHAPTER 12
IT WAS NOT A DREAM. When I first open my eyes I’m momentarily confused, but when I see the glowing embers that are that remain of my fire it all comes back to me. It’s morning now, but I don’t know how early. I’m still in the shadow of the cliff, and I can’t see how high the sun has risen in the sky. The air is cold, though, so I know the sun hasn’t been up long enough to begin heating up the day.
I reach into my emergency pouch and pull out the special blanket. Unfolding it quickly, I wrap myself inside it, then carefully place a couple of sticks and small logs on top of the pile of orange embers. I blow softly onto the coals, feeding them more oxygen. In just a few moments the thinner sticks catch fire, followed by the thicker ones. Between my newly ignited fire and my foil blanket, I’m soon warm and comfortable.
I’m also very hungry. I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday, and my stomach feels like there’s a small animal in there gnawing at my insides. I grab one of the protein bars from my pouch. I’m tempted to eat the whole thing, but I don’t know how long my supply will need to last. Reluctantly, I break the bar in half and put one piece back into the pouch. I eat the remaining half slowly. The mixture of nuts and chocolate is actually pretty tasty, especially as hungry as I am. It’s all I can do to stop at just half a bar, but I manage to control myself.
With my basic needs of food and warmth taken care of, I can start taking stock of my situation and figure out just what I’m going to do.
I’m still alone on my small beach—that hasn’t changed. The tide is in now, and the lapping waves reach to within fifteen or twenty feet of where I sit. The thin ribbon of dry sand remaining above the tide line is empty—no wreckage has washed ashore overnight. Step one seems fairly clear: I need to find a way off this beach.
From where I sit, I can see pretty much all of the cliff that rings my beach, so I remain where it’s warm and make a visual survey. The nearly one hundred foot high escarpment is fashioned of rock and dirt. In some places the cliff is barren stone; in others spots stringy weeds and small plants have found footholds. The heights are not quite vertical, but are near enough to it to make climbing them very dangerous.
I have little choice, though. I’m either going to have to climb up, or swim out along the shore in hope of finding an easier access point. I don’t relish the idea of going back into the frigid water, so climbing it will have to be. I need to examine the cliff more closely to find the best place to make my attempt, so I fold up my blanket and stuff it back into my pouch. After strapping my machete to my back, I say good-bye to my cozy little campsite. I leave the fire to burn itself out—if I have to return here for any reason, it will be nice to have some warm coals waiting for me.
Since I’m near the south end of the beach, I decide to head in that direction first, carefully scanning the cliff as I walk along its base. I don’t see anything promising down here, so when I reach the end, I turn around and head north, examining the rock and dirt wall with equal care.
About fifty feet north of my campsite, I find a spot that offers at least a little bit better opportunity for climbing than anything I’ve found so far. A narrow fissure, probably cut by storm runoff, slants upward at a slightly less severe angle than the rest of the cliff. This route still appears slippery and dangerous, but if I can’t find anything better, I’ll have to make my attempt here.
I keep walking. I’m almost to the end of the beach when fortune smiles upon me.
There’s another fissure in the cliff face here, wider and a bit less steep than the first one. Even better, the rotting remains of an old wooden staircase lead up through the cleft toward the top. The stairs obviously provided beach access during better times—almost certainly in the days before The Incident. Most of what was once a railing along the stairway is gone, but some of the steps and a few of the posts still remain. They’ll all make useful hand and footholds. The climb will still be tricky, but it’s by far the best avenue for getting myself off this beach.
There’s no point in delaying, so I step up into the fissure.
I climb carefully, testing each stair and each post before committing my weight to them. The rotting wood of the third stair splits under my probing, a grim reminder of what can happen if I allow my concentration to lapse even for a moment. A missed step or fall might not be immediately fatal, but a broken leg would almost certainly seal my doom in the long run. Caution is critical.
In places where there are no steps or stairs to aid me, I’m forced to crawl upward clinging to any exposed root or crack in the rock I can find. The climb is grueling. Before I’m even halfway up, I’m sweating from my exertions. The mental strain is even worse than the physical effort.
I refuse to look down—what’s the point in that, other than reminding myself how far I have to fall? I don’t look up toward the top, either. I’ll get there when I get there. At all times, my focus remains entirely on the next few feet of my climb. My progress is so slow I feel like a snail crawling up a stone wall. I wish I had the suction of a snail, but I don’t, so I have to plod my way cautiously upward, making sure every move is safe before proceeding.
Finally, I reach the top. I haul myself up onto the flat ground and lay with my cheek pressed against the grass, waiting for my heart rate to slow and my breathing to return to normal.
I can’t rest long, though. I don’t know what dangers I might be exposed to up here. I need to make a quick survey of my surroundings and find at least some concealment while I decide what to do next. Remaining stretched out on my belly, I prop myself up onto my elbows to take a look around. A low horizontal silhouette will be much less noticeable to watching eyes than a vertical one. Slow, even movements will also be less noticeable than fast, jerky ones, I remind myself.
I’m lying in a field of tall grass and stringy weeds, which help conceal me at least a little. Scattered saplings and clumps of low shrubs dot the field, which stretches back from the cliff for a couple of hundred yards. Beyond that, tall, thickly wooded hills rise up to meet the sky. The bright blue canopy is painted with high, wispy cirrus clouds—“horsetails,” we call them back home because of the way they look.
The silence is unsettling. Other than the muted pounding of the waves onto the beach far below, I hear nothing. I suppose that’s better than hearing growls and screeches.
I turn back toward the ocean. From my new vantage point, I can see a much broader swath of water than I could from down on the beach, but it doesn’t matter. As far as my eyes can see, the sun-dappled sea is completely empty. I swallow my disappointment. I knew the odds were small, but I had been hoping for a sight of The Star of India, or at least one of the lifeboats. But there’s nothing. The huge, seemingly endless expanse of ocean drives home just how alone I really am. If any of my party survived, they’ve come ashore somewhere beyond my sight.
I crawl slowly toward a small clump of leafy shrubs that offers me at least some concealment and push myself up into a sitting position. I’ve been so consumed with getting off the beach that I haven’t really given any thought about what to do next. Well, I’m off the beach now, so it’s time to decide, no matter how futile any decisions might seem.
I guess a good place to
start is by figuring out where the heck I am—roughly, anyhow. If I had any of the Navy guys with me, they could probably give me a pretty good idea based on the stars last night, but celestial navigation is not one of my skills. I know how to use the North Star to determine direction, but I can go north or south from here simply by following the coast, so I have no need for the North Star.
From my conversation with my dad and Captain Spiby, I know that we sailed past the Channel Islands the other night. That means I have to be somewhere north of Santa Barbara, which if I remember correctly, puts me roughly half way between San Diego and San Francisco. I sigh. Distance will be no help in making my decision—I’m equally unlikely to reach either destination on my own.
Pulling my legs up close to my body, I wrap my arms around my shins. I have to approach this from a different angle. What would my dad do if he were me?
The answer is simple, I know. The goal of the mission is up in San Francisco, so that’s where he’d head as long as he had breath in him. So would any of the other soldiers.
But I’m not a soldier. Even if by some miracle I did manage to reach San Francisco—and I don’t really see how that’s possible—what would I do once I got there? I don’t even have a Power.
The hopelessness of my plight descends upon me anew, crushing me with its weight. What I choose to do doesn’t really matter—I’m certain to be dead within a day or two, probably torn to pieces by some horrible creature. Better I should end this myself by leaping off the cliff or swimming out to sea until I can’t swim any more. Either end would be preferable to the fate that most likely awaits me here on this wild, untamed coast.
Get a grip, girl, I tell myself. If Radar was here and knew what I was thinking, she’d slap me hard upside the head with her ball cap. She would never give up…so neither will I.
I need to think more positively; I have to believe that at least some of our party survived the kraken attack. If they did, they have to be somewhere on this same stretch of coastline as I am. I don’t know whether they’re ahead of me or behind me, but I do know they’ll be heading north, so that’s the way I need to go. And if I’m going to go, I might as well go now.
I unsheathe my machete and make my way quickly across the field, ducking behind bushes and shrubs where I can. The open landscape atop the cliffs is far too exposed—if I’m to have any hope of traveling safely, I need to head north along the edge of the woods, if not through them.
As I near the trees, I see a two-lane road running along the base of the hills. My recent geography lessons tell me it must be Highway 1, a road I can follow all the way to San Francisco—if I can stay alive, that is. The road is empty, of course. It must be years and years since any vehicles drove upon it. That doesn’t mean it’s not used by walkers…or crawlers…or slithering things.
The woods have encroached upon the far side of the road, with some of the underbrush actually growing up through cracks in the asphalt of the shoulder. I dart across the blacktop into the concealment of the trees. From here, I peer as far up and down the road as I can see. Nothing is moving anywhere.
Even here at the edge of the trees, the woods are thick and the underbrush is tangled. Making my way through it would be slow and difficult work. The road is a much better option. If I stay close to the side I can walk quickly and still be partially shielded by the foliage. If necessary, I can duck into woods to hide.
I take one long, last glance behind me—in the direction of home—and then set out to the north.
The morning is warming rapidly, and I soon peel off my sweatshirt and tie it around my waist. The road makes an unending series of twists and curves as it follows the contours of the mountains. Sometimes the asphalt comes almost to the edge of the cliffs—when it does, the scenery is absolutely stunning. The rugged cliffs plunge almost vertically into the ocean a hundred feet or more below, where white breakers crash against jagged rocks in explosions of frothy foam. Several of the books we studied in preparation for our journey called this long section of coast some of the most breathtaking coastline in the world. I have to agree with them—I just wish I was seeing it under better circumstances.
At other times, the highway moves a hundred yards or more away from the edge, hiding any sight of the rocky shore below. No matter where the road goes, though, the ocean is always a looming presence off to my left. At almost no time is the route flat—the roadway is almost always climbing up or down the hilly coastline, sometimes quite steeply. Whenever I come to a sharp bend, I move into the shadows of the trees until I can get a glimpse of the road ahead to make sure I’m still alone. Doing so costs me a bit of time, but that’s okay. Better safe than sorry—especially since out here, sorry can mean very dead.
I pass several rusted Highway 1 signs, confirming my guess about the road. A couple of the metal signs and poles are twisted and bent, and one has been uprooted completely and is lying face down in the weeds. I don’t even want to imagine who or what might have done this damage. The only evidence of human life I spot is plastic wrappers of varying sorts and an occasional rusted soda or beer can. None of the litter appears remotely recent.
The hours pass slowly as morning morphs into afternoon. I take short breaks whenever my legs feel the need. Other than an occasional gull winging its way over the ocean, I see no sign of life. I’m growing hungry, but I’m determined to wait until sunset to eat the second half of my energy bar. Water hasn’t been a problem. I’ve passed two small streams which flowed down the hill and under the road in concrete culverts. I drank my fill from both. The water was cold and delicious.
Everything considered, things really aren’t so bad. Maybe I actually can walk all the way to San Francisco.
My optimism comes crashing down when I round another of the seemingly endless curves in the highway.
CHAPTER 13
THE ROAD IN FRONT OF ME has disappeared, swallowed up by a giant landslide. Tons of rock, dirt and other debris have come crashing down from the steep hillside, completely covering the highway. Green, stringy weeds and small plants sprout up from the soil, telling me the slide occurred several years ago, at the least. It would take a team of bulldozers to clear the way, and there are no bulldozers anywhere in sight.
This section of road is one that skirts the very edge of the cliffs, so there’s no going around the blockage on the ocean side. I’m either going to have to climb the ridge to my right to find a way past it, or pick my way over the remains of the landslide. Neither looks like a particularly appetizing alternative.
The hill above the road is bare and almost vertical for the first twenty feet or so. Above that, the terrain is steep and seems to be more thickly wooded than any I’ve passed so far. Maybe that’s just because for the first time I’m seriously considering trying to make my way through it, but whether that’s true or not doesn’t really matter. Navigating my way among the trees and undergrowth will be difficult. Plus, there’s no telling how high I’ll have to climb before I can make my way back down to the road on the other side of the landslide. It could take hours—or more—to pick and cut my way through the tangled growth. I don’t relish the effort that will take.
On the other hand, crossing the pile of dirt and rock would certainly be much quicker—but more dangerous. One missed step on the loose pile of debris could send me sliding down over the edge of the cliff onto the rocks far below. Such a fall would certainly be fatal.
I spend a few minutes weighing my choices, alternatively looking up into the nearly impenetrable woods and gazing out across the steep, slippery-looking blockage. In the end, I opt for the quicker, more certain route.
Sheathing my machete to keep both hands free for better balance and to grab onto something should I need to, I step carefully up onto the edge of the dirt pile. The loose-packed soil sinks under my foot.
I move slowly, testing every step before putting my full weight down. The dirt sinks or slides at least a little bit with every step, sometimes just an inch or two, sometimes much more. M
y heart is beating fast, and I have to force myself to breathe slowly and deeply as I pick my way across. When I can, I grab onto one of the bushes that poke up from dirt, but only after pulling on it hard enough to make certain its roots will hold my weight. I try not to look out onto the ocean far below, keeping my focus on my next step instead.
I’m more than halfway across when disaster strikes. A football-sized rock under my left foot gives way and goes skittering down the pile. Wind milling my arms, I fight to maintain my balance, but I’ve committed too much weight to my left leg and my foot slips out from under me. I twist around so that I land on my stomach. For a moment, I remain where I’ve fallen, breathing hard with my body pressed against the dirt, but then I begin to slide slowly downward.
I dig in frantically with my fingers, seeking some purchase to stop my fall, but the dirt is too loose. Worse, I’m beginning to slip more rapidly as my momentum builds. I don’t have to look behind me to know what’s going to happen if I’m unable to stop myself.
My hand finds a small shrub, and I lock my fingers desperately around its base. For a few seconds my fall is stopped and I think I’ve saved myself. Then my weight pulls the plant’s roots from the soil, and I resume my slide toward oblivion.
I twist my head around and glance behind me. I’m less than twenty feet from the edge now, and there are no more bushes for me to grab to stop my fall. An idea comes to me, a desperate gamble for sure, but I don’t see any other choice. I give up scrabbling at the dirt with my fingers. Instead, I reach over my shoulder and yank my machete from its sheath. Using both hands, I plunge the blade down into the soil with all my strength, sinking it to the hilt.
The heavy blade acts as a brake, stopping my slide. My arms are completely extended above my head now, and my feet are actually dangling over the edge of the abyss. At least I’m no longer slipping downward, though. I lay there for several minutes, holding tight to the handle while my heart rate and breathing slowing return to normal. Finally, I’m ready to try to move.
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