Wherever Seeds May Fall (First Contact)

by Peter Cawdron

  Midnight on the Gulf

  Most of the kids are asleep, but not Veronica. She sits cross-legged on one of the mattresses as Jorge and the padre talk at a nearby table. She’s playing with a couple of dolls, whispering to them, telling them not to be afraid.

  The light bulb over the door blows, plunging the cellar into darkness. Before either man can react, a bright flash of light illuminates the outside stairs. It’s as though someone’s turned on a high-powered spotlight, shining it over the cellar windows. As quickly and quietly as it came, the light is gone, leaving them in darkness.

  “They’re here,” Veronica says.

  Jorge is sluggish to respond. His eyes haven’t adjusted to the sudden darkness. Veronica is on the move. He can hear her shoes on the bricks. She’s running for the door. She wants to see the aliens.

  “No!” he says, chasing after her, stumbling in the dark.

  “What’s going on,” another child asks.

  “Nothing,” the padre says. “Go back to sleep.”

  With his arms out in front of him, Jorge waves his hands around in a bid to avoid crashing into crates in the dark. He runs for the cellar door. Outside, moonlight floods the stairs. He catches a glimpse of Veronica disappearing over the top of the stairs and scrambles after her.

  “I can see them,” she says.

  Veronica comes to a halt on the gravel driveway winding along the cliff top behind the orphanage.

  Jorge’s not sure what she’s referring to. Veronica’s standing by the north-east corner of the main building, out on the edge of the orchard. He jogs up to her. She smiles, pointing into the sky.

  “Look!”

  The night sky is crystal clear with one exception—a single, dead-straight cloud has cut through the darkness above them. It’s billowing, catching the high altitude winds. If he didn’t know better, Jorge would think this was the contrail of a jet, but there’s an eerie green glow around the edges. Lightning crackles along the length of the cloud.

  “It’s beautiful,” Veronica says.

  Jorge wouldn’t describe it as beautiful. Unnerving is a better term. He picks up Veronica, resting her tiny frame on his broad, muscular forearm. She wraps her arm over his shoulder and around his neck. Veronica squirms, wanting to see the entire length of the cloud.

  “It came from over there,” she says.

  Out across the Gulf, where the cloud is thickest, lightning strikes at the sea several times a second. Jorge waits for the break of thunder, but it’s too distant. That’s when he sees it—the ocean turning white on the fringes. Jorge has no idea what he’s looking at, but he knows it’s not good. He runs for the stairs. Maria said something about a wave, but this is different. This isn’t a wall of water. It’s moving too fast. It’s as though the surface of the ocean is being churned by some invisible propeller. A vast, curved cloud descends, rushing across the Gulf, sweeping in toward them.

  There’s no time. The storm is moving so fast it’s almost on top of them. Rather than rounding the edge of the stairs, he jumps the low stone wall, wanting to drop down to the fifth or sixth step. While in midair, the wind hits. A wall of compressed air sweeps down on the orphanage like a wave crashing at the beach. Jorge is thrown down the stairwell. Thunder breaks around him. Trees are uprooted from the orchard. A car tumbles over the gravel. Walls collapse. Bricks fall. Glass shatters.

  Jorge crashes into the empty crates, breaking them as he tumbles down the stairs. He loses his grip on Veronica. She collides with the doorframe, falling onto the landing outside the cellar. Wooden beams splinter and break. Dust swirls around them.

  Then comes the silence.

  A warm, wet, sticky fluid drips from Jorge’s forehead. He’s groggy. Disoriented. He reaches up, feeling blood oozing from a cut on his scalp. He’s not sure how long he’s been lying on the stairs. His rib cage hurts.

  “Veronica,” he says, only his voice sounds strange—distant. He can hear himself and yet he can’t. Blood drips from his ears.

  Veronica is covered in a layer of fine white powder. Jorge cries. He picks up her frail body, cradling her, whispering to her as he clears the dust from her face.

  “Please,” he says, holding her close. She feels fragile. Her arms are thin. Her skin is soft beneath his rough, calloused fingers. Jorge tries to find a pulse. Nothing. His lips tremble. “Veronica?”

  Jorge’s in shock. He staggers up the stairs and into the night, carrying her into the darkness.

  The orphanage is gone, so is the church.

  At first, he’s confused. Then he realizes the two-story building has been reduced to rubble. Collapsed walls lie crumpled against the ground. Wooden support beams have been snapped like twigs. In the distance, down by the beach, fires rage, burning through the slums.

  Jorge falls to his knees. He lays Veronica on the ground, being careful to rest her head on a clump of grass. As he goes to stand, a tiny hand reaches out, touching his wrist.

  “Hey,” he says, looking into her eyes. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

  She speaks, but he can’t hear her. He can’t hear anything beyond the high-pitched whine in his ears. Slowly, sounds come into focus. Veronica cries. Her tears clear away the dust from her cheeks.

  Jorge works his hands over her shoulders, elbows, and wrists. He squeezes her knees and ankles, looking for a response that’ll reveal the extent of her injuries. Being a nurse, his daughter Maria insisted on teaching him advanced First Aid—something he never thought he’d need. At no point does Veronica grimace. No broken bones. She’s got a large bruise on her forehead and scrapes on her arms and legs, but she’s conscious. Crying is good. Veronica would disagree, but it tells him she’s going to be okay. She’s in pain, but she’s avoided serious injury.

  “Listen,” he says, finally able to hear his own voice. “I need to go and look for Padre Jesus and the others. Do you understand?”

  Veronica sits up. Her lips are downturned, but she nods.

  “I’m going to be over there. I’m not leaving you. I’ll be right back. You stay here. Okay?”

  “Yes.”

  Jorge is relieved to have heard her, however faint her voice may be. He gets up. Pain seizes his joints. Whereas he wants to jog back across the gravel driveway, he can barely walk. A fire breaks out in the ruins of the orphanage. Jorge hobbles on one hip, pushing through the pain to get to Padre Jesus.

  He shuffles down the stairs to the cellar, using his arms to steady himself. His legs tremble. He pushes against the brickwork to stop himself from falling. Once on the landing, he begins clearing away broken wood and fallen bricks. As much as it hurts, he forces himself into a rhythm. It’s just like cleaning fish. Jorge focuses on one section of debris and then the next. If the wood is light enough, he tosses it up over the edge of the stairs. Bricks get stacked to one side on the remains of the crushed crates.

  “Padre Jesus,” he calls out, working himself inside the doorway. The doorframe is intact, but the wooden support beams in the roof have fallen. Bricks and rocks have collapsed into the cellar. “Can anyone hear me?”

  Jorge is methodical. He works with the loose rubble, trying to tunnel into the cellar rather than remove all the debris. He follows a narrow opening and works to shore it up as he leans into the darkness.

  “Padre?”

  A feeble, “Jorge,” echos back at him through the darkness.

  “Hold on, padre. I’m coming.”

  Jorge gets hold of a clump of bricks, wrenching it free. He turns, making his way back to the stairwell, only to be greeted by Veronica. She has her arms cradled, ready to take the load from him. He doubts her ability to carry the weight, but the sad look on her face is such that he understands. Like him, she will do all she can to free survivors. He releases the weight of the bricks into her outstretched arms. Her shoulders sag, but she keeps hold of the debris. Veronica turns and stacks the bricks. It’s a struggle, but she’s as stubborn as the old fisherman.

  Tiny fingers protrude from the rock pi
le, wriggling to get free.

  “Easy,” Jorge whispers, shifting more debris.

  “I’ll pass the children through to you,” Padre Jesus says from the darkness. He pushes a child ahead of him.

  One by one, children crawl through the gap. Some of them are crying. It’s the ones that aren’t that worry Jorge. They limp on crushed bloody feet. A few nurse flayed arms. For now, shock insulates them from the pain.

  “That’s it. That’s all,” Padre Jesus says from the darkness. Jorge wants to question him, to insist there are more, but the padre’s voice conveys sorrow. There’s resignation in his words.

  Jorge turns to Veronica. Their eyes lock and she says, “Twelve.” Never before did Jorge consider how the simplest of words could hurt so much. Twelve out of how many? Sixty? Seventy? His heart sinks.

  He lies on his belly, pushing into the tunnel and reaching out with his hands. Broken timber beams threaten to crush him. They shift as his shoulders make contact with the rubble.

  “And you,” he calls out. “Where are you?”

  “I—I’m,” Padre Jesus begins. “Leave me. I have run my race.”

  “No.”

  “I’m stuck. Pinned. My legs. I can’t feel my legs.”

  “Reach out with your hands,” Jorge says. He shuffles with his feet, trying not to dislodge any rocks as he inches forward into the darkness. A tiny hand touches his ankle behind him. Fingers grab his skin, just above his sock. Without uttering a single word, Veronica is pleading with him to go no further. Jorge understands. She’s scared. She doesn’t want to lose him. Neither does he.

  “Please, padre,” Jorge says, stretching his arm into the darkness. He shifts his hand over the rubble, feeling an opening. His fingers touch thin strands of hair. He feels around, shifting broken bricks and dirt. His fingertips detect a face, eyes, the outline of a nose, lips, blood-soaked clothing, but no life.

  Jorge pushes further in, feeling the rocks shift over him. Veronica’s hand tightens around his leg as she follows him into the darkness.

  In the darkness, he brushes against the palm of an outstretched hand. Fingers close over his.

  “Is that you, my brother,” the padre says.

  “It’s me,” Jorge says, squeezing his fingers.

  Jorge wriggles forward a little, getting a good grip on the padre’s wrist, locking his fingers around his arm.

  “I’m going to pull you out, okay?”

  There’s no response. Jorge edges back, but it’s difficult to get traction without bending his knees. Arching his back causes rocks to shift. Debris threatens to crush and entomb him. Dust clogs the air, making it difficult to breathe. Padre Jesus turns side-on, grabbing at Jorge’s arm with his other hand, getting a firm grip. He grimaces, groaning as Jorge pulls him.

  Crawling backward is slow, exhausting work. Jorge rocks on his elbows and knees, ignoring the ache in his leg and the blood dripping from his forehead. The padre cries out in pain, but Jorge doesn’t let go. He backs out into the landing in front of the collapsed cellar. Jorge’s legs are free, then his waist and finally his chest.

  “Nearly there.”

  Padre Jesus is hyperventilating. He tries to help, but Jorge does most of the work, dragging him through the rubble.

  Once Jorge’s outside, he’s able to kneel and edge the padre the last few feet. Padre Jesus is weak. He collapses as Jorge drags him out. Jorge grabs him under his arms and pulls him free of the debris. It’s then he sees the padre’s legs.

  “Is he okay?” Veronica asks. “Is he going to be okay?”

  Jorge can’t lie. “We need to get him out of here.”

  Ideally, Jorge would like someone to carry the padre’s legs. They’re a bloody mess. The padre’s feet have been crushed. Mangled flesh oozes from his shoes. His lower left leg is broken. Blood drips from a white bone protruding from his torn jeans.

  Jorge cradles him, lifting gently. He has one arm behind his back and the other tucked under his knees.

  “Easy, my friend,” Jorge says, climbing the stairs.

  A dozen children stand inert on the gravel driveway, numb to what they’re seeing and feeling.

  “What are we going to do?” Veronica asks, staying close to Jorge. He hears her but doesn’t know what to say. What is there any of them can do beyond survive this moment and hope for the next?

  Jorge rests the padre against a tree.

  “I’m sorry, my friend. This is going to hurt.”

  Padre Jesus whimpers, bracing himself. He presses his hands against the dirt. His fingers clutch at rocks on the ground as Jorge straightens his broken leg. Rather than screaming into the night, Padre Jesus has the presence of mind not to cry out in agony. The children are already terrified. He grits his teeth, moaning.

  Jorge removes his shirt, wrapping it over the padre’s injured leg, bundling it up so it acts as a bandage. He ties a length of wood against the padre’s leg, acting as a splint.

  “Listen,” Jorge says, addressing not only Padre Jesus but the children around him. “I’m going to go down to the city. Maria keeps a First Responder kit in the cupboard. It has painkillers and bandages.”

  He takes Veronica by the shoulders, saying, “You’re in charge, okay?”

  Trembling lips precede a slight nod.

  “I want you to keep everyone together. Hug each other. Stay warm. I’ll be back soon.”

  “You promise?” she asks.

  “I promise.”

  Padre Jesus can barely speak beyond a whimper, but he manages, “Be careful, my friend.”

  Aftermath

  Nolan pushes on up the seemingly endless concrete stairs.

  The battery-powered emergency system is still working, lighting each landing. Coming down from the White House, the team was able to use elevators most of the way. They only had to walk down a couple of hundred feet to the basement. The trek back up, though, is a marathon. The elevator is out of order. By his estimate, there are over a thousand stairs between them and the East Wing. Voices echo down from above. They’re indistinct, but the prospect of reaching the top urges them on.

  By the time the two of them reach ground level, Nolan can feel a solid burn in his thighs. His lower left calf muscle is starting to twitch, on the verge of pulling. Getting old. Damn it.

  A staff member leads them through to the West Wing.

  The Situation Room has been expanded, overflowing into the hallway. White House staff have pushed narrow tables up against the far wall in the corridor. They’ve positioned laptops and landline phones every few feet. Network cables disappear into a bundle snaking its way over the table legs. Chairs have been neatly pushed in, maximizing the space. Staff squeeze back and forth along the corridor. Getting around someone that’s seated demands timing.

  Most of the President’s Cabinet are operating out of Camp David. SecDef, SecState, and the Secretary of Homeland Security have remained by her side. Their aides work magic, reaching out to departmental staff working through the night. Everyone’s trying to assess the damage to infrastructure around the country.

  Nolan gets a glimpse inside the Situation Room itself. Standing room only. The televisions are black with one exception. Although the sound is off, subtitles reveal CNN is reporting from the southern coast. There’s footage coming in from somewhere near Corpus Cristi. The rolling chyron catches his eye.

  NOAA are reporting deep water buoy displacement between 30-40 feet.

  Expecting waves to increase in height in shallow waters

  Estimates range from 120 to 140 feet in height.

  A wall of water is expected to overwhelm Padre Island and Galveston.

  Surge flooding is predicted to occur in Houston, New Orleans, Mobile, Pensacola, and Tampa.

  A general evacuation is in force for all areas within fifty miles of the coast.

  Evacuate now if you are in these regions.

  Someone pushes past Nolan, squeezing into the room with a sheet of paper held high like a flag. They’re trying to get someon
e’s attention without yelling.

  Kath grabs a seat at the dead-end of the corridor just beyond the Situation Room. Smart. Nolan sits beside her. She’s got her own laptop and fires up both that and the one provided, sitting them side by side.

  Nolan logs on to his laptop and checks mail, chat, and secure channels. There’s a lot of activity, but none of it is directed at him. As much as he wants to jump in, he needs to let people do their work. As frustrating as it is, he’ll hinder rather than help.

  The officer next to him is working the phones. He’s got the White House Immediate Issues database open on his laptop and is taking calls. Although he answers, “White House Communications Center,” he’s speaking so fast that the phrase merges to become a single word. In barely a second, he rattles off, “Whit-Ouse-Communique-Cinder.”

  When he finishes his call, Nolan asks, “How can I help?”

  “Oh, general. You don’t need to.”

  “All hands on deck,” Nolan says. “I’m not above fielding calls if it’ll help.”

  “Okay,” Sergeant Eugene Russo says, leaning over and logging Nolan into the database using his own credentials. “Punch 101 to pick up the next waiting call. Triage is being handled by McGuire. He’s looking for summary information—who called, where they’re from, what they’re reporting, the impact, and if possible the expected resolution time.”

  “Got it,” Nolan says, seeing the fields in front of him.

  Over the next half an hour, the two men race through calls. “Whit-Ouse-Communique-Cinder,” seems to roll off the tongue.

  Utility companies inform him of blown transformers, burned-out power plants, melted insulation. These aren’t problems that can be fixed by simply rebooting a computer. A good portion of America is going dark for days, if not weeks.

  Amidst the gloom, one call, in particular, gets Nolan’s attention.

  “Dr. Jackie Williams here from the Department of Energy.”

  “Go ahead, Dr. Williams.”

  “I need to speak to someone with an understanding of nuclear science.”

  “I can log your call,” Nolan says. “From there, all calls are being triaged for importance and impact.”