Quickly Luci darted from her access way to a corner mailbox. Hiding behind it, she looked down the street to an alleyway where she had, on many occasions, found food behind a strip of Oriental restaurants. She was startled by a burst of automatic gunfire which caused her to hold her ears and scream softly. Then she quickly darted to the alleyway and slid into a new hiding place behind a fuel oil tank. She peered slowly down the alley to Mr. Lee's back door. Mr. Lee had on several occasions given her food, and now her hunger drove her back as she desperately hoped he would open the door for her.
Driven on more by her hunger than held back by her fear, Luci raced to Mr. Lee's rear door and rang the service bell frantically, her eyes darting back and forth down both ends of the alley way. All she could see was a cloud of smoke billowing down the street side and blackness on the other.
There was no answer. Mr. Lee's door was firmly shut.
Luci flattened herself against the door as another burst of gunfire echoed down the alley, followed by voices that seemed to be headed toward her. In a panic, she twisted the door's handle, which easily opened. Quickly, she squeezed inside and shut it gently, hoping Mr. Lee would understand why she let herself in.
In that moment, Luci saw something she would never forget. Mr. Lee sat facing her in the chair behind his desk, with the open-eyed stare of death. Blood trickled out of his nose as his head leaned against a blood stained wall behind him. And in his hand he still held the weapon that he had used to end his own life.
Then Luci saw that before him was a plate heaping with food, still steaming and apparently untouched. As much as she was horrified and repulsed with Mr. Lee's death mask, she inched slowly toward him, as though he would somehow move or blink at her. She stood at the end of the desk, her eyes transfixed on the food, her senses overwhelmed with its aroma, which to Luci was the irresistible smell of life. Then she plunged into the plate with both hands, gulping as much of the warm rice, slices of chicken and mushrooms as she could. In Luci's young life, time was everything. She ate the food as fast as she could, whimpering and groaning with joy and desperation, all at once. She wanted to eat as much as she possibly could before she was discovered. But, as she ate, she kept her eyes carefully away from Mr. Lee's cold, blank stare.
In minutes the plate was spotless and empty. Luci even licked it and cleaned every last grain of rice off the desk and floor. Her tiny body immediately felt the rush of nourishment, and for the first time in recent memory, she felt a charge of energy and a hope that she might live yet another day.
Then she saw it. As she recognized what she was looking at, her mouth fell open in astonishment and her eyes widened. All around Mr. Lee’s office were unopened crates of food! Her little-girl mind raced with the possibilities. She could open them and start eating, here and now, until she was discovered, then run away. Or, she could snatch as many of the containers as she could carry and spirit them to her deep hideaway under the city streets.
Luci took a deep breath then decided she would carry as many as she could and take them there now. She ran to the nearest crate and tore open its top. It was a crate of canned hams. She began feverishly pulling cans out of the box and stuffed them into her Barbie backpack. It held five and it was heavy - it would have to do.
Carefully, Luci walked back to the door, tugging her heavy backpack on her shoulder, and peered outside. While she had only been in Mr. Lee's office for a few minutes, the noise, sound of breaking glass and shouting had become more intense on the streets as it echoed loudly down the alley. But the alley itself seemed safe. Luci bolted out of the door and down the alley to the street, where she stopped and looked around. Then she darted over to her storm sewer drain, tossed her pack in front of her, and squeezed in behind it safely.
Luci crawled to the sewer trunk, tossed her pack in before her and jumped in herself. She immediately headed down to the next passage, where she abruptly stopped. She suddenly realized that if she went back she could get even more food. Her little body trembled at the thought. It was as though she had stumbled across King Solomon's treasury, only this treasure was far more valuable. It would bring her life; it was the literal doorway into another day.
Luci ran and splashed through the passageway back to her sewer drain and carefully placed the five tins of ham in a neat stack off to one side. Then she squeezed past the opening and peered out onto the street. The level of chaos had not diminished, but Luci could see no additional danger, so she inched her body outside, ran down the alley and back to Mr. Lee's office.
Just outside, she saw the door to Mr. Lee's office standing wide open and she froze. Luci could not remember whether she had left it open on her way out before. Or, was someone else now inside? Part of her urged her to go back and be satisfied with the five tins she already had. But another deeper, more primal part of her being urged her to go ahead, to go forward and get more food. Her body was full for the first time in her recent memory and she felt the thrill of the discovery of her life, so she inched cautiously ahead.
Mr. Lee's face had not changed, except the blood was no longer dripping from his nose. More importantly, the crates of food were still there, just as she had left them. Luci immediately turned and slammed the door closed and bolted it from the inside. Then she rushed back to the open crate of hams and loaded five more into her pack. She giggled with contentedly with deep excitement as she did so. Luci returned to the door, unbolted it and slipped slowly outside. This time, she closed the door carefully just before she ran back to the end of the alley and slipped into her storm sewer drain.
Luci repeated the trip again and again throughout the night. The noise and chaos on the Seattle streets hardly diminished, but it seemed that the world was angry at anything and everything else but a little girl with a stuffed backpack scurrying to and fro from a sewer all night long.
By the end of the night, Luci had managed to transport seventeen and a half cases of food including ham, chicken, various oriental noodles, a case of candles with Mr. Lee's matchbooks, a bottle of Flintstone's vitamins from Mr. Lee's desk, and even a case of fortune cookies. In total exhaustion, Luci slept the next day in the trunk between the storm sewer, crowded between her food and the tiny opening into the main drain pipe that led to her deep hiding place.
When she awoke the next night, Luci crept from the storm sewer to try and recover even more of Mr. Lee's treasure. But as she rounded the alley, she saw to her horror that Mr. Lee's entire block was engulfed in flames. Quickly she ran back to her tiny opening in the street and began the long transport of her huge cache to her secret hiding place. By the next morning, it was all safe, deep beneath the flaming streets of the great city.
Luci sighed with deep contentment as she looked about her. In this place that had been her coffin, there was now enough food to last her for months and months more. She tore open the clear wrapper from a single fortune cookie and began munching contentedly. She looked at the tiny strip of paper it held inside. It read: YOU ARE INDUSTRIOUS AND WILL DO WELL. Luci shrugged. She had no idea what it said, but it was going to be fun to save all the cute little papers anyway.
14
Hong Kong fell under the brutal hand of Chinese martial law, just like the other provinces. But just like China, the rest of the formerly civilized world capitulated momentarily under the iron and unforgiving hands of governments losing their control. But Striker Legend's improvised boatyard kept on operating around the clock, despite the riots, despite the government's control of every aspect of public and private life and despite the state of total disorder outside the fence.
Legend stood in the center of the yard and looked at his creation taking shape. It was a huge, surreal looking object of welded steel tubes, plates and beams sitting atop what appeared to be a cluster of tanks and legs made of a spider's web of pipes and steel tubes. The structure had little geometric reason, but seemed as functional as an offshore well drilling platform, even though it did not exactly look like one. It looked more like a squat aircraft carr
ier suspended on a long cylinder. Instead of a simple flat deck, it held endless tanks and boxes strapped or welded to its frame. The structure was painted flat black and had round port holes all over that were fitted with bubble lenses.
Since the announcement of the coming quantum storm two months prior, it was widely assumed that Striker Legend was creating a survival shelter. The Chinese government left him alone because it had announced that all survival projects would be supported by the government provided a Chinese official was permitted to join each group to ensure the continuation of the communist government’s version of the Chinese way of life. Furthermore, Striker had used creative bribes of cash, gold and Harley bikes to establish for himself an army of private security guards around the perimeter of the boatyard.
The world outside his fences was coming apart at the seams, but Legend's world was secure and moving apace. The boatyard never slept, the welders never stopped and the creation that Legend called Phoenix grew larger and more impressive each passing day.
"Striker, how are you gonna launch this thing?" asked his brother, Baker, standing at his side, looking up at the massive black structure before them.
"You keep asking me that question," Legend replied, not taking his eyes off of the Phoenix .
"Well, how about it?"
"Secret," Legend stated flatly.
"Ok then, dude, I guess I'll have to wait just like everyone else for the launch in two months," Baker replied, not concealing his disenchantment.
"You won't be disappointed," Legend responded. "Trust me. No one will be disappointed."
"If we stay on schedule, we'll be launched over a month before the storm starts. Why so early?"
"Because I don't trust the eggheads," Legend snapped. "What if their computers are broke? I don't want to be sittin’ here in this harbor fried like an egg on a hot Texas sidewalk. Better to be a little early than a little late. Besides, I've gotta give the Chinese navy the slip. I don’t want them trackin’ me."
"How can they?"
"Submarines. They think they own all Chinese property and they consider this Chinese property. Once the storm starts, they’re gonna track this like one of their own military vehicles. Why do you think they’ve given us so much freedom to operate here?"
"I always thought it was your good looks," Baker replied with a sarcastic grin.
"Nope. They see this project as a viable seed pod for their wretched ideology, and they intend to use it as such."
"How can they? You’re gonna be the master of the Phoenix , so how can they have it their way?
"By killing me after we’re underway and taking the Phoenix by force."
"How can they accomplish that? They’re only allowed one government official onboard. I hardly think his skinny rear will be any match for the rest of us."
"Submarines, my bro. Submarines will soon rule most of the habitable world," Legend replied, staring at the creation taking shape before his eyes. "But they won’t be a match for this machine, thanks to your little gadgets."
"I don't wanna be difficult here, Striker, but how can this monstrosity take on a Chicom sub?" Baker asked sincerely. "Even with my gadgets, we’re sittin’ ducks, period. The Phoenix basically floats in the current. But there we are, just floatin’ at the whims of the currents, basically dead in the water. So how can we outwit a submarine that moves at better than thirty knots under nuclear power?"
"Who said we’re gonna be dead in the water?" Legend asked with a sly grin.
"Well, I realize we have maneuvering thrusters, but that hardly qualifies as propulsion."
"Well, bro, once we put your gadgets together with my machine, the Chicoms won’t know a sardine from a whale," Legend responded with a wicked smile.
15
Lew Warren’s battered Winnebago and trailer pulled into Coweta, Oklahoma, on its way to Haskell, the small town of Warrens’ childhood days that was just a few more miles down the road. He arrived in Coweta at ten thirty at night, six long days after leaving Florida. The trip across the country had been surrealistic. As Warren traveled through Florida, Alabama, Mississippi and Arkansas, he was overwhelmed and sometimes frightened at the extent of the chaos that had descended on the nation. There was little or no consistency from town to town, from city to city. Some regions had declared martial law during the evening hours and had even blockaded movement of traffic on the interstates.
There was a virtual river of humanity on the move, clogging the nation’s highways and making gasoline more and more difficult to find. Fortunately for Warren, with a combination of sheer luck and huge auxiliary fuel tanks, he managed to make it to his destination. One fuel stop cost him four hours in a line that ended with his draining the fuel stations’ last drop into his massive land-ark. It was something of a mystery to Warren as to where everybody was headed, but they were moving in unprecedented numbers in all directions at once. It seemed as if the nation had awakened like an ant pile with all its residents pouring forth to the surface and running amok in all different directions at once. While there may have been individual purpose behind every movement, from the long view it was just a massive, chaotic stream of people moving with all due speed on every conceivable course.
For six long, interminable days, the old, wrecked Winnebago, trailer and its three passengers – a man, a dog and a fish - sat in lines that were mostly at a standstill, inching forward one foot at a time. They counted the still-as-death hours and the crawling minutes more than those in which they actually moved along the highway. Warren passed more tragedies than he cared to remember, and wondered, along with everyone else, what the next day would bring. It seemed no one on the highways of America actually had a hope of reaching their destinations at all, they just had to get out of where they were and get to where they were going, as if it was going to make any difference in the end.
The sheer magnitude of the exodus gradually transformed Warren to a stoic existentialist in control of little or nothing. He struggled not to feel sorry for whole families stranded on the highways, but in his heart of hearts he knew his own breakdown was only a matter of time and miles. He was not a man given to prayer, but he fought a powerful urge to cast his eyes heavenward on occasion and plead for just a few more yards down the terrifying, jam-packed roadway.
As Warren slowly maneuvered the hot, ill tempered Winnebago through the main street of Coweta, he was acutely aware that the avenue was busier than he had ever seen it in his life. At 10:30 PM these streets were typically nearly deserted and the sidewalks rolled up tight. But on this night they were alive with activity, and a policeman stood in the middle of Broadway and Chestnut Street directing a steady flow of single lane traffic through town. As Warren pulled into the intersection toward the officer waving him through, he recognized the man and stopped beside him.
The officer shot a furrowed scowl at the window of the RV and, looking supremely irritated, blew his whistle, spat it out and yelled, “Keep it moving!” while frantically continuing to wave his arm.
“Lance? Is that you, Lance Charles?” Warren asked the black skinned officer who stared up at him without a similar recognition.
Suddenly his countenance changed as surprised unbelief flashed in his eyes. “Lew Warren? Lew Warren! I’ll be a son of a …”
Warren smiled for the first time in six long days. “Damn, son; it’s good to see a face I finally recognize!”
Charles smiled, flashing a set of perfect, white teeth. “I thought you was in the Navy.”
“Retired a long time ago,” Warren replied. “I’m looking for Dale Wattenbarger. He still live around these parts?”
“Yep. He’s still in Haskell. And I can tell you exactly where you can find him.”
“Thank God! Where? Any place I know?”
“You got an extra seat in that rig?” Charles asked.
“Sure do. But ain’t you got a job to do?” Warren asked nodding his head behind him at the row of a dozen or so cars all honking their horns at his massive wheeled struct
ure now blocking traffic in all directions.
“Yeah, I got a job to do. But it’ll be here tomorrow. Besides, I finished my eight hours ten hours ago. No overtime authorized by the city council even when the whole world is bustin’ apart at the seams. So I’ve basically been working for free for the last week. Who gives a damn anymore; what’s the difference? Besides, I really need a beer.”
“Get in,” Warren said, still smiling, pulling a bungee cord that opened the passenger side door. “I’m buyin’.”
When the side door opened, Marbles, who had been quietly sleeping, awoke. As soon as Charles’ form appeared in the vehicle, he lurched forward with his best worried bark, his bushy brow furrowed in defensive concern. Marbles’ black doggie eyes widened until they showed a ring of white as his teeth bared. He growled and howled simultaneously in his best act of threatening fierceness.
“Get off the seat, you black seed of Satan,” Warren said as Marbles sprang instantly down and cowered under the nearby couch, still growling.
Lance Charles climbed into the seat as Warren gunned the tired engine and drove out of town south toward Haskell, which lay in the darkness some six miles distant. “You’ll probably find your old buddy, Dale Wattenbarger, in the Little Cowboy down there, out of town, where he now spends most of his time,” Charles said with a sigh, as he relaxed in the deep cushions of the seat which Marbles had pre-warmed for him.
Warren looked over to Charles. They had all been classmates at Haskell High decades ago. Warren had not seen or talked to Charles since graduation night forever and a day ago. Charles looked older than his years, his face lined with premature wrinkles. But oddly enough, his hair and full, bushy moustache were still jet black without a trace of grey. And he looked totally fit, with not even a hint of belly creeping over his thick leather uniform belt.
“Ain’t your wife gonna be worried if she doesn’t hear from you?” Warren asked.
Quantum Storms - Aaron Seven Page 10