The Nuclear Catastrophe (a fiction novel of survival)

by Billig, Barbara C. Griffin

  In a moment of indecisiveness, he stood on the cracked sidewalk and inhaled the morning air. The light breeze carried an aroma of putrefying garbage from the alley and sent a new wave of nausea racing through his stomach. Unable to decide, by weighing the risk against what he might gain if he succeeded, he finally made up his mind to take the chance, and drove back to the border.

  Cecil stopped in front of one of the more respectable buildings on the Mexican side of the gate. It contained not only an insurance office, but a marriage parlor, and next to it, a quick divorce office. The fourth suite was occupied by a bail bondsman.

  Stepping nervously into the grubby clapboard building, Cecil was warmly greeted by a suave, meticulously attired salesman. “Yes, sir?” asked the olive-complexioned man as he dragged a chair over for Cecil. “You wish some additional insurance while you visit with us?”

  Cecil wavered a moment, then taking a deep breath he rapidly explained his needs.

  The agent pulled out a pad of forms and began filling in his signature at the bottom. When he completed his name and the date, he said, “We will require some information from you, please. Your name?”

  “Cecil M. Yeager.” Cecil spelled it for him.

  “And where do you live, Senor?” asked the agent politely.

  Cecil hesitated. Should he give his correct address? But then, the agent was sure to ask for his driver’s license. “It’s, uh, 1214 Adams Street, San Mirado.”

  The agent paused over the paper. “Senor, the border closed at midnight to all Americans. Until the catastrophe in Los Angeles is over, no one will be allowed to enter Mexico—including our own people who were there yesterday. It is sad, yes, but this is a rule of our Presidente.”

  Getting the drift of the agent’s comments, Cecil immediately objected. “But this doesn’t concern me. I have been in Mexico for some time now. I know nothing of what happened there.”

  Seemingly reluctant to believe him, the agent drummed his pen against the desk top. “You were not in Los Angeles yesterday?” he asked.

  “No, I was here in Tijuana,” Cecil answered flatly.

  The day was becoming warm. Cecil wiped the perspiration from his forehead and gulped down a ball of saliva. His mouth was cottony inside. “I was right here in town,” he repeated to the agent.

  Smiling benignly, the man quickly replied, “In that case there is no reason to deny you insurance. Now, we must have the car’s make and model, Mister Yeager, and then we will be finished.”

  Cecil told him the details.

  “One other thing, Senor. I am obliged to obtain proof of where you stayed here. It is a small detail that we have been asked to verify since the closing of the border.”

  Thinking back to the sleepy clerk at the hotel, Cecil decided that a phone call would promptly reveal that he had checked in late in the night and actually spent no more than six hours there. Fumbling with the inner pocket of his jacket, he let his face assume an expression of concern. “You know, I just remembered that I didn’t pick up my wallet. I must have left it at the hotel,” he said in a worried voice.

  “I will be happy to telephone to the hotel for you, Senor,” offered the other. “I must call there about you, regardless.”

  “No, no. I....I will go for it,” said Cecil, getting to his feet.

  “Let us hope it is there, Mister Yeager. To be in Mexico without identification is not good,” said the agent.

  Of that fact Cecil was keenly aware. He’d read of many U.S. citizens and their bouts with customs’ officials when they couldn’t be properly identified. But customs wasn’t his problem. He was traveling in the opposite direction. For now, he feared that he had made the insurance salesman suspicious, unless, of course, he was simply being overly sensitive in thinking that the Mexican knew he’d lied. Probably the agent didn’t care whether Cecil had come from Los Angeles or not; yet, he had followed instructions in requesting verification of lodging. “I will return once I find my wallet,” Cecil said as he walked out the door. He breathed a sigh of relief once he was outside.

  As he was pulling the car into the street he glanced into the window of the insurance office. The agent was talking into the telephone, his neck craned to view the license plates on the vehicle.

  Cecil sat back and enjoyed the tunes of the mariachi band. The street musicians were permanently encamped in the patio of the hotel and their renditions of Spanish songs lent a romantic aura to the starlit night. He delicately licked a few crystals of salt from the rim of the glass before taking a drink of the Marguerita. Perhaps he would adjust to the leisurely pace of Mexican living. Ensenada was an interesting city with its warm, sunny days and honey-skinned girls. He had left Tijuana immediately for this town farther south. Here no one seemed to notice just another tourist.

  Cecil was particularly proud of himself this evening. His digestive troubles were finally settling down, and he’d brought off a shrewd deal. Being unable to purchase Mexican insurance, he had been forced to discard the plan for driving the auto out into the country and wrecking it, thereby collecting on the newly acquired policy. Instead, he’d passed the word around the hotel that he wished to sell his car. Within an hour a dark, swarthy man had inspected the vehicle and made an offer to purchase.

  Unaccustomed to the Latin style of bargaining, Cecil had sold the car on the man’s initial bid. For five hundred American dollars, the buyer had a two-year-old sedan. Elated at his good fortune, the man had spread the message of the ignorant tourist, and later Cecil had to become very outspoken in convincing strangers that he had nothing else he wished to sell. The transaction had been altogether exhilarating, for he knew the car to have been radioactive. What could have been simply abandoned in a narrow street had been converted into unexpected cash.

  Using a small part of his money, he had invested in a complete new wardrobe—enough apparel to replace those items he’d left behind, and enough to get him started down here. He’d been a conservative dresser all his life, but today, for once, he’d permitted a Mexican clerk to sell him an outfit that he considered slightly garish. He smiled to himself as he remembered the loud shirts and slacks that he had refused before settling on the off-white gaucho shirt of muslin, and the brown pants. He reached up and tugged the open throat of the shirt closer together, aware that it would be some time before he became accustomed to being in public without a tie.

  Without knowing the reason, he had taken great pains with his toilet, carefully parting the brown hair in a precise line along the side of his head, and shaving so closely that his skin was as smooth as a baby’s. He wore the shirt hanging outside his pants, but it made him uncomfortable. Although it lent a casual air, he was used to the tail being tucked in. Taking one last glance of himself in the mirror before leaving the hotel, Cecil had been delighted to find an image of a man well-preserved for his forty years, with thick bushy eyebrows that hinted at an inner magnetism that he strongly suspected was lacking.

  Sitting amidst the evening noise in the open patio, he was strangely nervous—not relaxed as he wanted to be. It was always thus when he was around people. He would tighten up, becoming almost frosty in conversation, and eventually, he would remove himself entirely from the scene. Being a retiring, shy man, making small talk required the greatest effort on his part. He much preferred to avoid such experience. His spirits had been high earlier in the evening, and up in the room he had toyed with an exotic plan or two for spending the next few hours. Thus, he had determinedly brought himself to the patio and taken a seat before the dancing beauty in the red shoes, intent on forcing himself into the swing of things.

  He tossed the first Marguerita down and ordered a second. The dark, Latin features of the girl were suggestive of her high spirits. She was a beautiful woman. For a second he was reminded that he’d always been attracted by the exotic beauty of dark women. He had been staring at her as she clicked her heels against the wooden floor and swayed her hips to the rhythm of the music. He was unaware that he had been so obv
ious until she danced close to him and brushed his arm with her buttock. Then he had jerked away in embarrassment and focused his attention onto the drink as she danced laughingly across the room.

  He hurriedly drank and ordered a third. The liquor was something he took for the enjoyment of its effects. The taste was not particularly pleasing to him, but in short time, the tequila was being absorbed, and his taste buds no longer mattered. In college he had referred to himself as the cheapest drunk on campus because it required so little alcohol to make him tipsy. Already it was beginning to hit bottom, sending a lazy, carefree feeling ebbing through his body.

  The dancer returned to his table and stamped out a staccato rhythm with her feet as she whipped her torso into a lively series of contortions. Periodically she’d throw her long hair back from her face and snap her head up, revealing the delicate curve of her neck. Cecil watched, entranced. Numbed by the liquor and mass of woman before him, he broke into a broad, devilish grin as she undulated closer and closer to his chair. His palms were growing sweaty and his heart was pounding against the inside of his chest. Her skirt grazed against him during a violent twist of her hips, and he reached out to grab it—a second too late. She laughed as she danced away.

  He motioned to the bartender for another drink. The evening was progressing well for him. The waiter obligingly placed the fresh glass on the table and took Cecil’s money. The man wore a surly expression as he counted out the change. Cecil noticed this and wondered for a moment if the waiter resented American men with money coming in to flirt with the girls. Not that it should be any concern to the waiter—he was an employee.

  Cecil was turning to observe the dancer again when he saw the military uniform of the local policia at the bar. He saw the bartender nod in his direction and point him out to the officer. His back stiffened as he watched the policeman weave a path through the tables and come to test at his side.

  “Senor, let me see your identification,” said the officer in broken English.

  A wave of fear shot through Cecil’s body. Why had he been singled out by the officer? “Why do you want to see my identification?” asked Cecil. “Hey, I don’t need a passport to be traveling in Mexico, officer.”

  “Senor.” The policeman stared at him, his eyes harsh. “Your driver’s permit, please. Now.”

  Cecil hesitated. To refuse the officer’s request would be too dangerous. He reluctantly withdrew his wallet and handed it over saying, “I have been a visitor to your country many times and never has anyone asked me to present proof of my identity.”

  The officer examined the I.D. carefully. “Are you Mister Cecil Yeager?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come with me.”

  “Oh no. Now, Officer, I’m only a tourist looking at the sights. I’m sure you’ve made a mistake.”

  The man in the brown uniform stared coolly at him. “Come.”

  “Well, wait. Can’t we talk about this?” Cecil pushed his chair away and stood near the uniform so he could speak quietly. “Of course I don’t want to cause any trouble, but officer, I think I have a right to know why you’re doing this.”

  He took a step closer and reached out to lay his hand on the policeman’s arm. The officer jumped as if he’d received an electric charge, drew his body back and stared with frightened eyes. The reflexive movement of the officer cautioned Cecil. Nothing would be accomplished by offending the man.

  “Senor, we will go to the station now,” commanded the policeman.

  Cecil meekly followed him to the police van. Assuring himself that there was no possibility he could be in real trouble with the Mexican authorities, Cecil felt that outward signs of cooperation would result in getting the confusion speedily resolved. He sat quietly, saying nothing, during the trip to the headquarters.

  By night the large adobe structure hardly looked formidable. Soft lights illuminated the entrance as Cecil trailed the officer through the dusty receiving room and into a smaller interrogation cubicle. Several men awaited them.

  Appearing to take command, one of them, one with a coarse black mustache and piercing dark eyes, motioned Cecil into a chair. Cigarette smoke fogged the air in the tight compartment.

  “Mr. Cecil Yeager,” said the commandant, “we regret that this is necessary.”

  “Well, I think there must be some confusion, officer,” replied Cecil. “You undoubtedly have me mixed up with someone else,” he said with what he hoped was calmness.

  “You sold a car to one of our citizens today, Mister,” said the official flatly.

  “Sure I did. But that isn’t a crime. Why, you people are always buying them right off the lot in Los Angeles.”

  “Senor Fernando Martinez paid you five hundred dollars for the car,” remarked the officer in an accusative tone.

  Cecil’s calmness swiftly abandoned him. “Yes.” At last he knew what this was about. It was the sale of the car.

  “Do you have the money on your person, Mister?”

  “Yes,” Cecil answered quietly.

  Extending his hand, the officer ordered, “Give it to me.”

  “Hey now, wait a minute,” protested Cecil, “that was a legitimate sale. Mr. Martinez was happy with the car. He got it for practically nothing.”

  One skinny forefinger tapped the desk top, a reminder of its owner’s position of authority. “Put it here!”

  Cecil respectfully laid the folded bills on the desk. “This sort of action must be unusual for even Mexican officials,” he retorted.

  The officer replied, “We do not rob you, Mister Yeager. You will have your car again. Follow me.” With that he led Cecil to the paved compound at the back of the station.

  There, two others stood, far removed from the automobile that had been sold to Martinez. Carrying a metal box hooked to a microphone, one of the men strolled over to the car. He flicked a tiny lever and a steady series of clicks issued from the box. Drawing the box away, the clicking grew fainter until at a given distance, it ceased altogether.

  Extending the microphone toward Cecil, clicks began to be emitted again, growing stronger as the detecting instrument was brought within closer range.

  “As our scientists would say, Mister, you are very hot—very radioactive, like your car.”

  Everything fell into place. Cecil could see himself in a dingy underground dungeon awaiting a trial that might never occur.

  “Nobody sells a beautiful car like that for five hundred dollars—not unless he has a very special reason to get rid of it quickly. And with California tags on it, too. We are not so dumb as you must think, Mister Yeager.”

  “Look, I didn’t know about this. I swear I didn’t. I sold it because I needed the money, that’s why.”

  “We do not wish to have you sharing your new...” the officer paused, searching for the right word, “molester with us. We do not wish to have your malady in our country, Mister.”

  “I meant no harm to anyone, officer. If you think it’s best, then I’ll just leave.” There were other cities beside Ensenada.

  “Yes. You will leave. But you will not only leave Ensenada, you will drive your car out of Mexico—back to the States.”

  Cecil’s mind was working rapidly. The car was a hazard to him. “Well, the car is pretty radioactive. I’d just as soon not spend any more time in it, if you don’t mind.”

  The official glared icily at Cecil. “The vehicle is very dangerous, just as you are dangerous, Senor. We wish you out of our country immediately. You will drive your car north to the border crossing, and pass back into the United States!”

  Accepting the order as a lesser evil than being thrown into jail, Cecil reached out in an offer to shake hands with the official. The man recoiled at the proffered palm.

  “No. No. Do not touch me!” he snapped.

  The fright registered on the other’s face gave Cecil a momentary feeling of satisfaction. Perhaps it was because of the tequila, but now that he realized how afraid this man was of the strange radiation, he suddenl
y wanted to throw his arms around the other, locking them about his body, forcing him to absorb the mysterious rays.

  Refusing, wisely, to give in to the foolish impulse, Cecil moved over to the machine and took his place in the driver’s seat. It was not until he pulled out from the compound that he understood there’d be a police car escorting him on the long drive to the border.

  At the border crossing all eight lanes were closed to traffic. Both in-coming and out-going vehicles were prohibited except for Cecil’s, of which, he assumed, they had been forewarned. He chuckled to himself that for once the guards were not in the least interested in checking the car for contraband. He’d seen an automobile of a couple of hippies ripped apart once, on the belief that the trunk, or motor, or something, must be hiding sacks of marijuana. After an hour of searching and nothing was found, the hippies were permitted to enter the U.S. But their car was a shambles.

  He had been expected, it seemed. The accompanying patrol car veered to the curb, coming to a stop before the guard station. The barrier had already been removed so that it required nothing more than a single wave from the guard to send Cecil into his homeland.

  Driving the freeway between Tijuana and San Diego was a fifteen minute trip—one that he’d made several times in his younger years. He knew San Diego well. He’d been stationed at the naval base as a staff officer for two years. It was a lovely city. He remembered the bright blue skies and cool ocean breezes, the white stucco buildings and the gray ships anchored in the harbor. Climatically, San Diego was a little pleasanter than its big sister to the north, Los Angeles. It didn’t have industrial wastes fouling its air, and the serpentine highway systems didn’t have to carry thousands of people daily. In comparison, San Diego was still a small city, growing only spasmodically over the past twenty years, and without the constant, sustained enlargement of its sister. But now its beauty was marred by the flood of refugees that had descended upon it. The masses had become bottled up, the Mexican border preventing them from dispersing any farther southward.