Tsunami: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller

by Crawford Kilian

  Their crew waited on the dock: Bill Murphy and Chief, just off the ferry from San Francisco, and Einar Bjarnason. Sam Steinberg was there too; he was on the Berkeley local executive now, and had come down to see them off.

  “You know,” Sam remarked as they all walked down the dock, “when Don first suggested this salvage idea, the executive thought he was nuts. Now they’re all terrified that maybe they were right the first time, and we won’t get the oil after all.”

  Don laughed. “They’ll get it, all right.” He looked up at the night sky: stars glittered among the scattered clouds. “We’ve got good weather. I hope it stays that way. We won’t have any weather reports between here and Vancouver.”

  “Don’t remind me,” groaned Bill Murphy. “All the way up the coast in a dinky little sloop, without a working compass or radio. The executive was right — you are nuts.”

  Naiad was moored at the end of the dock; they all went aboard, including Sam, who opened a bottle of champagne. They sat on deck in the cool April night, drinking and talking quietly. Sam said good-byee and left, and then it was time to take the tide.

  *

  Far out from the coast, the sea was strewn with floating debris — logs, trees, shattered lumber, sometimes the recognizable fragments of a house or dock. It was exhausting to beat against the west and northwest winds while steering around half-submerged logs. But Don saw that his crew worked well together; they had been chosen partly to give representation to the locals supporting the trip, but all had experience in small craft and were enjoying the challenge of pitting Naiad against the sea.

  It seemed strange to Don to sail within sight of the coast yet see so few signs of life. Twice they saw other sails and, once, a derelict Japanese freighter loomed up out of early-morning rain and drifted slowly past. The coasts of northern California, Oregon and Washington were wrapped either in clouds or in smoke; at night, the flames of vast forest fires glowed all along the eastern horizon, and sometimes half the sky pulsed red and pink above the fires.

  “I wonder if there’s a stick of wood still standing between Alaska and San Francisco,” Don said. “I’ve seen bad fires, but nothing like these. They must have been burning for weeks.”

  “It is sad,” Einar said. “In my country we have no forests since a thousand years. When I came to Berkeley, the trees were like magic to me. Often I go walking in the hills just to see the trees.”

  “You and my grandfather will get along,” Don said with a wry smile. Then: “Einar — look. To starboard.”

  With a splash and a gasp, a humpbacked whale broke the surface. Then another one, and more; in less than a minute, six whales had appeared around the sloop.

  “My God,” said Don, “look at their backs.”

  A whale rose right alongside Naiad; its enormous back was a bleeding, oozing mass of sores and rotting ttesh. From its blowhole came a strangled squeal. Then it dived, showing flukes the size of Naiad’s sails. Another surfaced. It circled the boat, followed by the others. All showed gaping lesions in their backs and in the upper sides of their fins and flukes. Some seemed hardly able to breathe: their blowholes were almost sealed shut by swollen flesh.

  “Ultraviolet,” said Einar without expression. “The water does not protect them much.”

  “They’re asking for help,” Don said. “I believe they’re asking us to help them, and we can’t. We can’t do a thing for them.”

  For fifteen minutes the pod circled the boat. The whales’ cries were thin and shrill. At last the leader turned away, and the others followed. Don and Einar said nothing for a long time.

  *

  A week after leaving San Francisco, Naiad was sailing through Juan de Fuca Strait along the coast of Washington. Don could see the scars of the tsunamis: hillsides scoured down to bedrock, beaches buried under immense piles of shattered trees. But the waves had not propagated far into Juan de Fuca Strait; the channel looked to Don much as it always had, except for the lack of ships in what was normally a busy waterway. The peaks of the Olympic Range were dazzlingly white; so were those on Vancouver Island, on the north side of the strait. Along the horizon hung a brownish pall of smoke and haze, thick enough to sting the eyes and catch in the throat.

  Naiad sailed through the San Juan and Gulf islands, and crossed the Strait of Georgia to the mouth of the Fraser River. After days of silence or static, Naiad’s radio came alive: three Vancouver stations were broadcasting news, weather and music, and there was a lively chatter among the fishing fleet.

  “It all seems so damn normal,” Bill Murphy commented.

  “Not really,” said Don. “The only fishing boats we can see from here are all sailboats. They’ve got a fuel shortage too.” He looked worriedly at the skyline of Vancouver, rising to the north. “I just hope my grandfather managed to put away a little diesel fuel.”

  They cautiously entered the Fraser River’s North Arm, a narrow waterway lined with docks, shipyards, warehouses and sawmills. Apart from docks where fishermen were unloading their catches, the waterfront was quiet and deserted. In many areas the rising sea had flooded far inshore, leaving buildings intact but isolated from the nearest dry land.

  A green-and-white sign over a sawmill had been blistered by UV but was still legible: KENFOR. The mill stood on the north bank of the river, a sprawl of buildings and yards above a string of docks and boat sheds. As Don brought Naiad alongside the nearest empty dock, he pointed to the tug moored next to it:

  “There’s Rachel.”

  It was a big seagoing tug, forty metres long and ten wide, painted white with green trim. No one was aboard, or anywhere on the docks.

  They left Naiad and walked through the mill to the front gate, seeing no one. A young bearded Sikh, wearing a turban, came out of the administration building beside the gate. He was carrying a shotgun under one arm.

  “This is private property,” he said. “I must ask you to leave.”

  “I’m Geordie Kennard’s grandson. We’ve just arrived from California. I need to get a message to him. Would it be possible to send a courier?”

  “I don’t really think so,” the Sikh said, shaking his head. “But you could use the phone if you know his number.”

  “You mean the phones work?” Bill Murphy laughed. “Wow! We’ve hit the big time.”

  Two minutes later Don was standing in the reception area of the administration building, dialling. After three rings he heard his mother’s voice.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mum. It’s Don. Mind if Kirstie and I bring some friends home for dinner?”

  “Oh my God! Is it really you? Where are you? How are you?”

  “We’re down at the mill, Kirstie and I and three friends. We just sailed in from San Francisco.”

  “I’ll send Samuel down to pick you up. He’ll be there in twenty minutes. Are you all right? No, of course you are. Listen, I’ve got to hang up before I start crying or something silly like that. We’ll get things ready for you. Five people for dinner?”

  “Yes, Mum.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Bye.”

  It was the same old Cadillac that Geordie had always sent to meet Don and Steve when they were coming home from summer camp or university. And Samuel the chauffeur was driving, wiry and trim as ever, dressed as always in a black suit, white shirt and blue bow tie. He walked from the car to the main gate, where Don and the others stood.

  “Welcome home, Donald. And you, Kirstie. It’s good to see you both again. You’re looking well.”

  “Samuel, you look marvellous. You haven’t changed a bit.” Don gave him an affectionate hug and introduced him to the others.

  Everyone fit comfortably in the limousine, with Don and Kirstie in front and the three men stretching their legs in the rear.

  “How does Geordie manage to pay a guard for the sawmill?” Don asked.

  Samuel looked surprised. “With money, of course.”

  “You’ve still got a money economy?” said Kirstie.

 
; “Of course.”

  “Is the federal government still in charge?” Don asked.

  “Oh, no. Nor the provincial. We just have our local councils, working with the municipal governments.”

  “Then how do you still have money?” Bill Murphy asked from the back seat.

  “Why, it was … there. So we still use it. I know it doesn’t have any real backing, but then again they’re not printing any more, so it’s getting more valuable as it gets scarcer. Don’t you do the same sort of things in California?”

  “It’s almost all barter,” said Don, “and a little scrip put out by the locals. Samuel, how on earth can you still run this old gas guzzler?”

  “Ah,” said Samuel with a knowing smile. “It runs on natural gas now. We’ve still plenty of it coming down the pipeline from the north. And when gasoline got so scarce last year, I suggested to Mr. Kennard that we convert all our automobiles to natural gas. I expect most of these other cars run on it too — maybe a few on diesel, but that’s hard to find now.”

  As the Cadillac carried them west and then north into the city, Kirstie saw Don fall still. He gazed out the window, a fist over his lips, and she realized he was nerving himself. What a strange man he was: full of physical courage, yet frightened and resentful of a frail old man. When he reminded her of the ancient grudges and unhealed wounds in the Kennard family, she was almost grateful for her own upbringing with her cousins.

  Soon they were in Shaughnessy, the richest of the city’s neighbourhoods, but now looking shabby and decrepit.

  “A lot of people have moved out of town,” Samuel said. “Gone off to their summer places in the Gulf Islands, or up into the Cariboo. Some have just moved in with friends. Cheaper than trying to keep warm in a big old house. Mr. Kennard would never do that, of course. He’d be just miserable anywhere but home.”

  He turned in to a driveway flanked by yellowing laurel hedges. The grounds, covering half a good-sized city block, looked autumnal. A few brown leaves clung to the maples and alders; the monkeypuzzle trees had gone rusty orange. The fruit trees — cherry, plum, apple — were dead or dying except for a few small ones sheltering under plastic. Only the hemlocks and cedars seemed healthy.

  Despite himself, Don felt a pang of sadness. This place had been a prison for him, and he was glad to have escaped, but it had always been beautiful; it did not deserve this scarring. The house itself, three stories of Victorian turrets and stone chimneys, looked older than he remembered it: the white paint was blistered and peeling, and the roof was mottled with dead moss. Around the house, the rhododendrons that Don’s mother had nurtured for years were masses of withered brown.

  Elizabeth Kennard welcomed them at the door. She was tall, slim, her white hair piled into curls and contrasting sharply with her deep tan. She wore a pale silk blouse and a grey tweed skirt; Don thought she looked as if she were about to go off for an afternoon at the art galleries.

  “You look wonderful,” she said, giving him a brisk, cheerful hug. He introduced Bill, Einar and Chief. “I’m delighted to meet you all. Of course you’re staying here. Samuel will show you to your rooms, and after you’ve had a chance to freshen up a bit, we’ll have drinks and then supper.

  “Donnie and Kirstie, I made the mistake of letting Geordie know you were coming, and he insists on seeing you both at once. Do you mind? Good. It won’t be for long — he tires pretty quickly. Almost as quickly as I do.”

  “Really, how is Geordie?” asked Don.

  “Much frailer, but still his old self.” She lowered her voice. “Be careful what you say about Steve. We heard from the Commonwealth Antarctic Research Program just after the tidal waves. They told us a plane had been sent from New Zealand to evacuate Steve’s station, but it never came back. I’ve just told Geordie that they were all evacuated to New Zealand and we ought to hear from Steve any day now.”

  “That’s all you’ve heard? After almost two months?”

  “Donnie dear, it’s more than we’ve heard from you until today.”

  “Do you think Steve is dead?”

  What else can I think?” She shuddered a little. “Well, you turned up at last, so perhaps he will too. Now let me catch my breath. Geordie fusses so if he thinks I’m upset.”

  “Go on back downstairs. We’ll talk to him.”

  Geordie Kennard was almost as tall as his grandson, and very thin. Unkempt white hair fell thickly over his freckled forehead. At ninety-four he wore glasses, but only to conceal hearing aids; his eyes were a clear blue. Like his grandsons, he had a big nose and a slightly protruding lower lip.

  He sat in the library, the largest room in his second-floor suite, in a leather armchair. On a little table beside him were his five-o’clock whisky and a long Cuban cigar. The room was comfortably dim, aromatic with tobacco smoke. It was furnished with Edwardian heaviness except for an Apple V computer beside a big roll-top desk.

  “Come in and shut the goddamn door,” he barked. “It’s cold out in that hall. Hello. That Kirstie? You’ve lost weight. Samuel says you sailed up the coast. That right?”

  “That’s right, Grampa.”

  “Used to do that sometimes, when I was younger. Only we used the fastest goddamn boats we could find. Don ever tell you I was a rumrunner?” he asked Kirstie. “Those were the days when I was young and stupid. My dad finally retired just so I’d have to take over the business and quit risking my ass. Sit down! Have a drink.” Puffing his cigar, he poured them each a sizable glass of neat Scotch from the bottle beside his chair.

  “I hear there’s a lot of forest fires down in Washington. That true?”

  “Yes. All the way down the coast, until about Mendocino.”

  “We had such a dry winter, we had fires in January. Jesus Christ. Some of ‘em are still burning, too.” He took a deliberate sip. “We lost some good timber on Vancouver Island and up the coast. Not that it matters.”

  “Why doesn’t it matter?” Kirstie asked.

  “The goddamn business has gone belly-up, that’s why,” Geordie snarled. “No demand. Most of the lumber we had stored, these goddamn socialist unions just took over without so much as asking.”

  “What unions?” said Don. “Do you mean the local councils?”

  “Yeah, that’s what they call themselves. A bunch of reds, just like the dumb assholes I used to run out of my camps back in the old days. Well, they got what they want now. Everything gone to hell, all the industries bankrupt, and the forests burning down.” He smiled. “Y’know, I just hope to hell I hang on a little bit longer. With any luck at all I’ll be around for the end of the world. Wouldn’t that be a shame, to drop dead just before the end of the goddamn world, and miss it?”

  Don smiled. “You may think it’s bad around here, Grampa, but to us Vancouver looks like paradise. We’re fighting to stay alive down in California.”

  “Well, you’re here now. Your mother is really relieved. What are you gonna do with yourselves?”

  “We’re not staying. We’re going back to San Francisco.”

  “What? Why?”

  “You might say we are very involved with people down there,” Kirstie said. “We can’t just walk away from them.”

  “Huh. Why’d you leave, then?”

  Don took a deep breath; he had not expected to face this moment just yet. “Grampa, I want the Rachel.”

  Geordie gurgled with sardonic laughter. “You want Rachel, huh? What for, and what price?”

  “I want to take her down to Monterey and salvage a half-million tonnes of gas and oil. I need a big, powerful ship that doesn’t need a big crew, something that can haul a barge with a submersible down the coast.”

  “A submersible?”

  “The tanker’s capsized in about a hundred metres. We need to go down in a submersible, cut a hole in the tanker’s hull, and rig a pump to get it to the surface. Then we haul it in barges to San Francisco.”

  “That’s a fortune in fuel. How come somebody else isn’t salvaging this great tank
er of yours?”

  “Most of the professional salvage operators are dead. Anyhow, the Monterey area is being run by some general who doesn’t seem interested in trying to get the oil out.”

  “Jesus Christ on a crutch, boy — who’s in charge down there? What’s happened to the government?”

  “The government is gangs of soldiers and black marketers. The local councils who are running things sent us here.”

  “The locals. Like the ones we got here, right? You’re working for those assholes, and you want me to give you Rachel. I’d rather tie on a tin beak and peck in the shit with the chickens.”

  Don met his grandfather’s pale blue eyes for a moment and glanced away. His hands felt light and shaky. He took a deep breath.

  “This is a deal I’m looking for, Grampa, not a present. And if you only dealt with people you liked, you’d have been pecking in the shit with the chickens a long time ago. Now, do you want to deal?”

  “What’s your offer? It better be a good one.”

  “Give me Rachel and six months, and I’ll come back to take over the business.”

  Geordie laughed, almost silently. “I just got through telling you there isn’t any business. We’re broke, if that means anything.”

  “It doesn’t mean a thing, Grampa. You’re one of the richest bastards in British Columbia, and you know it. You’ve got ships, sawmills and the pulp mill. You’ve got more hydro power than most cities have these days. Broke my ass.”

  Geordie placidly puffed his cigar.

  “What you haven’t got,” Don went on, “is markets. The markets will come back, and they’ll go to whoever holds on to some physical plant, whoever gets transport going again. It might as well be KenFor.”

  “Well, I’ll certainly drink to that. But you tell me where the markets are.”

  “California. Maybe Oregon and Washington too, after all the forest fires. The locals in California are looking after a couple of million homeless people. We’ve got to get people back on their feet, working, producing, growing. The oil from the Sitka Carrier will get us through the worst part.”