Footprints of Thunder

by James F. David

  “What things?”

  “Those berry pies. I mean it doesn’t even say what kind of berries are in it. For all you know they could be dingleberries.”

  John was going to tell Ripman to cram it when he noticed a car pulling in next to Cubby’s van. It was a jacked-up 1969 Chevy Camaro painted primer gray, and it looked like it would always be a fixer-upper. There were two too-large Pioneer speakers wedged into the back window, blasting out some indistinguishable hard rock sound. Now three guys who were looking for trouble climbed out. The driver, the smallest of the three, was a little shorter than John at five foot eight but had huge shoulders and arms. His head was huge too, and his large lopsided mouth was shaped permanently into a wise-guy grin. He looked like a dwarf that had been inflated to normal size. All three guys wore faded Levi’s and jean jackets, and their hair was shaved close on the sides. The biggest one was about six feet tall and hung back a little from the other two. He was uncommonly ugly and wore his hair down so that it covered half his pimply face. When the driver stepped out in front of the others, they assumed tough guy poses behind him, “What are you assholes doing in our town?” The creep, John knew, was referring to him and Ripman. John also knew a rhetorical question when he heard one. Unfortunately, Ripman didn’t.

  “You talking to us?” Ripman said, with a surprising amount of menace in his voice.

  John had known Ripman since his freshman year in high school. Their homeroom turned out to be PE class and the ex-marine gym teacher had screamed out their names as he worked through the alphabet assigning locker mates. “Ripman, Roberts, number two thirty-eight.”

  In all the time he had known him, John had never seen Ripman in a fight. Ripman claimed to be six feet tall but was probably a little short of that and on the thin side. He was big enough to discourage the bullies in school, but this one in Newberg didn’t look or act discouraged.

  The leader snorted, smacked his gum a few times, looked Ripman up and down, then, with catlike quickness, snatched Ripman’s pie. The wise-guy grin got bigger as he held it up. Pimples snorted his approval.

  The big dwarf turned back to Ripman.

  “You want this back, asshole?”

  Ripman didn’t answer, he just stared defiantly. The big dwarf smacked his gum and grinned some more. Ripman flinched when the hand came toward his head, but then held his ground when the big dwarf squished the pie into his hair.

  “All right!” pimples chortled.

  With a slow deliberate motion Ripman brought his hand up to his head and forcefully scraped the pie off, throwing it toward the big dwarf’s feet, splattering them with lemon filling. Then the door behind them opened and Cubby came out. He was doing his tough-guy routine.

  “There a problem here?” Cubby asked in a voice two octaves below normal.

  Cubby pushed past the thugs and opened the van door. The big dwarf was turning red, his blood boiling—apparently he knew his limits and Cubby was a little beyond them. John climbed onto the bench seat in the back, but Ripman surprised him by climbing into the passenger seat. It surprised Cubby too. He almost never drove his van, preferring to ride in the passenger seat, hollering out the window while Ripman drove fast and semirecklessly.

  As Cubby started up the van and backed slowly out of the parking slot, Ripman maintained eye contact with the big dwarf. Suddenly the big dwarf spit his gum at Ripman, sticking it to the middle of the passenger window. When Ripman gave him the finger in return, the big dwarf nodded and glared, in commitment to see Ripman another time when Cubby wouldn’t be around.

  As Cubby headed them north, Ripman sulked, staring at the glob of gray gum. John knew what was eating at Ripman. Unable to handle the situation with the big dwarf he’d violated his “elemental” principle by requiring Cubby’s help. They drove out of town in silence and darkness.

  Cubby took them east on 99 toward Portland. As they climbed Breed’s hill out of Newberg’s valley, John could see the lights of the little town below them.

  Then the lights went out. John managed to get a “hey” out of his mouth before a sonic boom rattled the van. All three boys gasped, and before their ears and hearts had recovered, the storm hit. The sudden wind drove the van across the lane onto the narrow shoulder of the road, bordered by large rocks. Cubby hit the brakes and fought to keep the van out of the ditch. Gravel machine-gunned the bottom of the van and the tires screeched as the van slid to a stop. Silently, they all stared out the van windows.

  The wind roared around the van. John was horrified to see the fir trees on the other side of the road bending in half. Would they reach the van if they fell? The van rocked with each gust of wind and John honestly wondered whether it might be safer to get out. Then behind him, emerging from behind the hill to the west, he saw a funnel cloud was dancing through farmlands, ripping up crops and trees. John was seventeen years old and had spent all his life in Oregon. In that time he had never heard of a tornado in the state.

  The funnel was stirring up so much debris and dust that the road and fields were obscured. If it continued on a straight line, John estimated, it would cut across the highway and then continue into the vineyards on the east side. A farmhouse on that side was a little north of the tornado’s path. When John looked back he realized the tornado was curving back into Newberg. John sat there helpless, watching in horrified fascination.

  The tornado ripped through the nursery at the edge of town, shredding three greenhouses, then lifted into the sky and seemed to dissipate. Seconds later it was back, dropping to earth again, this time into the Ford dealership, first floating and then lifting Aerpstars and Mustangs. Then the funnel ascended again, widened into a swirling, angry cloud, and disappeared.

  The three of them sat in silence for a minute and then, all at once, clambered out for a better look as the wind died down to a soft, restful whishing sound.

  “Elemental,” Ripman said, surveying the damage in the valley below. “Let’s go take a look at that Ford dealer.”

  “Forget it, Ripman,” Cubby gut in. “Take a look at the road.”

  John looked back along the highway to Newberg. It was littered with fallen trees and debris from the greenhouses. They would need a chain saw and a bucket loader to clear a path to the Ford dealer. The road ahead was also covered with debris, but no,large trees blocked it. With one last look, and another “elemental” from Ripman, they climbed back into the van and headed home. They were all still on adrenalin highs and peppered their talk with “Did ya see that?”

  They finished climbing the hill, went down the grade, and hit the stretch where the road split into two one-way sections divided by dense trees. It felt like driving down a dark green tunnel. Suddenly, Cubby hit the brakes, sliding to a tire-squealing stop. Ripman very nearly hit the windshield, and John and his Big Gulp rolled off the bench seat. He came up cussing, but stopped when he looked out. Cubby was ten feet from where the road ended abruptly. The asphalt was neatly cut from one edge of the road to the other, and where the road should have continued was a forest, but unlike the one that had lined the road to Newberg. The spindly second-growth Douglas firs were gone, and in their place were giants, with girths three to four times larger. John stood, his head protruding from the sunroof, and traced one of the giants from its massive base to its crown, towering above him. Had the road been shifted by the tornado? Had these trees always been there, hidden from the road by the firs?

  Cubby and Ripman climbed out of the van, and Ripman walked to the nearest giant and kicked it with his foot.

  “It’s real enough,” he snorted, “but I still don’t believe it. Where … how did it—?”

  Cubby’s sudden loud sobbing cut Ripman off. John turned to see Cubby drop to his knees, his hands spread wide and his face turned to heaven. He buried his face in his hands and begged for Jesus to take him. Angrily stomping over, Ripman pulled Cubby’s hands from his race. Cubby jerked his hands back and shoved Ripman away, the other boy, overpowered, staggered back a few steps, his face red
with anger.

  “Get away from me!” Cubby shouted, his voice ragged with tears. “Don’t you know what’s happened? Can’t you see it? It’s the second coming. It’s the rapture. The righteous have been taken from the world and I have been found wanting.”

  “Don’t give me that, Cubby. This is just some kind of landslide, or maybe that tornado did something weird, but don’t give me that supernatural crapola.”

  As Cubby kept on sobbing, Ripman stepped forward, stopped and kicked dirt at the weeping boy, and then stalked to the edge of the forest, peering into the blackness. John approached Cubby but hesitated, embarrassed and afraid. Ripman was an atheist, but John was an agnostic who could be convinced of God’s existence by a miraculous event. What force short of a miracle could have delivered the changes? After a few minutes, Ripman stomped back to yell disgustedly, “Stop blubbering, you big baby. I’ll prove to you this isn’t the second coming. John, watch him till I get back.”

  John opened his mouth to protest, but Ripman walked off down the road toward Newberg. John watched him until the dark enveloped him, then he turned back to the forest, a forest that hadn’t been there a few hours ago.

  “I hope you’re right about this, Ripman,” John whispered, “I hope to God you’re right.”

  13. Flight Delay

  The flight leader radioed they were off course and his compass was haywire. The pilots of the other four torpedo bombers confirmed their instruments were going crazy, and then lost contact. After the planes vanished a twin engine Martin Mariner, with a crew of 13, was dispatched to search the area. The search plane was never heard from again.

  —Roger Cochran, Vanished: Secrets of the Bermuda Triangle

  Honolulu, Hawaii

  Time Quilt: Saturday, 10:11 P.M. AHT (Aleutian-Hawaiian Time)

  Assistant Professor Emmett Puglisi hurried through the airport looking for the arrival monitor. There were few people, but because he feared being late, everyone was in his way. Spotting a monitor, he quickly scanned for Dr. Wang’s flight. Emmett was relieved; he still had a few minutes before her flight arrived.

  Emmett noted the gate number but only took three steps before he was stopped by a touch on the arm. Emmett turned to see Professor Carrollee Chen-Slater’s beaming face. There was nothing subdued about Carrollee, not her smile, not her personality, and not the way she dressed. Today she was dressed in a brightly colored flowered sundress, which on most people would be gaudy, but Carrollee added large flowers to her sandals and one in her hair. Carrollee’s taste in clothes ran well past loud, and stopped just a little short of being circus garb.

  “Hello, Dr. Puglisi,” she said with mock formality.

  “Hello, Carrollee,” Emmett replied warily. He and Carrollee worked at the university but in different departments, and he knew her well enough to be careful of what he said.

  “Dropping off, picking up, or going somewhere?”

  Emmett considered lying but wasn’t good enough at it to fool Carrollee.

  “I’m picking up Professor Wang. She’s been at a conference on the mainland.”

  Carrollee immediately cupped her hand, put her nose inside and twisted it, making the universal sign for brownnosing.

  “It’s not like that,” Emmett said defensively. “She didn’t want to leave her car in long-term parking, and she doesn’t have any family—”

  “Or friends.”

  “I’m a friend.”

  “You’re an obsequious kiss-up who wants tenure.” Carrollee said it with a smile, but it stung anyway. Emmett changed the subject. “What are you doing here?”

  “I dropped my brother off. He’s going to the mainland for a couple of weeks. That’s him over there,” she said.

  Emmett followed the point to see a uniformed man a few years older than Carrollee standing in a ticket line.

  “I’m only doing it so he’ll keep buying me stuff in the PX cheap,” she added.

  “Nice seeing you, Carrollee, but I’ve got to get down to the gate.”

  “I’ll walk along.”

  Emmett left reluctantly, with the unpredictable Dr. Chen-Slater at his side. He didn’t want her near when he met Dr. Wang, but didn’t know how to get rid of her.

  “It might be better if I met her alone, Carrollee.”

  “Want to do your kissing up in private, eh?”

  “I’m just doing her a favor. It’s just that if she sees us together she might think we’re dating or something.”

  Carrollee laughed softly and then said, “Are you suggesting I’m not fit to be your girl?”

  Emmett was pretty sure she was kidding, but admitted to himself he was mildly attracted to her. Carrollee was four inches over five feet and had a round face topped with a mass of short brown curls. Her figure was unremarkable, except for the way she covered it.

  “I’m not saying anything about you,” he said defensively. “I just know Dr. Wang doesn’t think faculty should have personal relationships.”

  “You mean sex.”

  “Relationships. It creates complications—”

  Emmett never got to finish the conversation with Carrollee because at that moment a loud boom pealed through the terminal. People in the concourse gasped and babies cried.

  “A sonic boom?” Carrollee asked.

  “Maybe, but it sounded more like thunder to me.”

  Carrollee walked to a window. Mindlessly, Emmett followed.

  “It’s a clear sky,” she said, puzzled.

  No clouds or aircraft were in sight, and Emmett soon gave up and managed to slip away to find Dr. Wang’s gate.

  Twenty minutes past arrival time a commotion broke out by the arrival monitor. Emmett joined the crowd to find the arrival times gone, replaced by DELAYED. A half hour later the enormity of the disaster was clear.

  14. Tidal Wave

  The ocean will become desert and the fish will die in the sea.

  —Nostradamus

  Off Naples, Florida

  Time Quilt: Sunday, 3:12 A.M. EST

  An ear-splitting sound blasted Carmen and Ron awake and to their feet.

  “Look over there!” Carmen yelled and pointed. Ron followed her gesture starboard to an island. In confusion, Ron mentally reviewed his charts. There was no island within hundreds of miles of their position. Even if he had made a navigational error, they hadn’t been sailing long enough to reach one of the charted islands. As his mind continued to race he realized that there was something wrong with the island they were Looking at. It was getting smaller … no, it was sinking, and sinking rapidly. His mind hadn’t quite grasped the importance of that fact when the kids came out of the cabin, distracting him.

  “What was that?” Rosa asked. “I nearly peed my pants. Hey, an island, neat. Can we go there?”

  “Can we go there?” Chris echoed. “Hey, where’s it going?”

  The island was clearly sinking. Just half its original mass was visible.

  “Look at the sky,” Carmen said.

  Ron saw a boiling angry cloud bank above the island. Otherwise it was a clear night in all directions. Lightning suddenly lit the sky, quickly followed by peals of thunder, and Ron realized the clouds were racing away from the island in their direction. More lightning traced constant jagged patterns and lit up the clouds while overlapping peals of thunder sounded nearly deafening.

  “Man almost as good as a laser show!” Chris yelled above the thunder.

  “It’s too close,” Carmen shouted into Ron’s ear. “Can we move away—”

  A stiff breeze suddenly hit them, interrupting Carmen. It was then Ron realized the danger.

  “Carmen! Get life jackets on Rosa and Chris and one on yourself, and get below! Secure everything. Quickly!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Ron hesitated. Rosa and Chris were staring at him with frightened eyes, but there was no hiding what was coming,

  “I think we’re going to be hit by a tidal wave.”

  Rosa and Chris looked stunned, but Carme
n immediately took action, herding the kids into the cabin. The breeze was getting stronger and waves were rolling the Entrepreneur to starboard. Ron hit the Start button and listened to it crank, his eyes never leaving the sinking island. After a few seconds of eternity the little engine chugged to life, but it wasn’t designed for outrunning a tidal wave and could manage only a few knots. Ron hesitated, anguished. Rationally he knew his best chance was to head into the wave, but every cell in his body was programmed to run from danger, not toward it. But the lives of his son and his new family depended on his decision. Finally, he put the Entrepreneur in gear and spun the wheel to starboard, and toward the island.

  Carmen reappeared on deck with two life jackets. Chris and Rosa were peeking out of the cabin behind her, worried—but Ron was reassured that they didn’t reflect his own mortal terror. Carmen looked around briefly and then turned to Ron.

  “Aren’t you going the wrong way?”

  “If there is a tidal wave, we need to head into it. If we run, it will catch us and swamp us. If it hits us broadside we’ll be capsized.”

  “Won’t it swamp us if we run into it?”

  “There’s a better chance this way.”

  Ron wanted to say more, but there was no conviction in his words. If he tried to explain more his voice would quiver.

  “Really, this is the best chance.”

  Carmen took the helm while Ron put on his life jacket, cinching it tight. He stepped below to double-check the kids’ jackets and weakly attempted reassurance.

  When Ron took the helm again Carmen gripped the railing, her knuckles white, as if she expected the wave at any second. The wind was picking up and the clouds from the island were beginning to block out the stars. The lightning was only intermittent now. Ron found the occasional peals of thunder more disturbing than the constant booming, as he reflexively used the pauses to prepare for the next boom. The starry calm night of a few minutes ago was now a stormy nightmare.