by Thomas Hopp
“Keep it floored!” Steel cried. The metal slip gantry split apart and fell away to each side, as did the upright composite-log bumpers intended to absorb the much smaller impacts of ferries arriving at normal speeds. The bumpers, ineffectual against the Issaquah’s tremendous momentum, splayed outward and crashed into the water, raising walls of white spray on either side of the dock. Meanwhile, the Issaquah surged toward us with her engines roaring at full throttle and her speed almost unabated. I kept my foot down on the accelerator and the Mustang fishtailed backward toward the shore end of the pier, but the ferry moved faster, demolishing the dock as she came.
The pier crumpled section-by-section as the Issaquah pressed forward with engines thrumming at full power. The dock’s heaving motion made me wrench the steering wheel back and forth to compensate for the movement of the roadway. The Mustang failed to gain speed under the circumstances, and I helplessly watched out the front windshield as the patrol car vanished into the surging rubble heap and the military trucks were consumed one-by-one, their drivers leaping off the dock to uncertain fates in the water below. The flat rounded bow of the Issaquah’s car deck acted like a shovel spade, tearing through the support pilings under the dock and tossing timber crossbeams and road fragments high into the air. The heavy wooden beams erupted skyward one after another and descended like immense missiles. Some plunged into the water on either side of the dock. Others thundered down directly in front of us.
For a few heart-stopping seconds I was sure we would be crushed by the growing tangle of wreckage, but then the Issaquah’s momentum abated and she ground to a halt. As the last debris thundered down, I steered my Mustang away and stopped near the ticket kiosk, thankful to be back on solid ground.
The havoc of the ferry’s impact was astonishing. Nearly half the dock was gone. Masses of debris were piled on the half-eaten pier or floating in the shallows on either side, including some of the cars and trucks that had been aboard. People, too, were afloat on either side of the pier. Some flailed or swam toward shore. Others drifted, unmoving. In the center of the wreckage, the Issaquah herself lay heeled over on her side, her keel solidly grounded. Neither the police officer, nor the captain, nor the madman, were anywhere in sight. The Issaquah’s engines rumbled at maximum power, ineffectually churning the water behind her.
I turned the Mustang around outside the terminal and drove off, hurrying along neighborhood streets until I reached a freeway onramp. Soon we were hurtling southbound on Interstate 5 through sparse traffic, headed for the Tacoma Narrows Bridge. I kept the speedometer near eighty miles an hour and my fists clenched on the wheel. The radio delivered more bad news.
“The President has ordered a complete quarantine of the Olympic Peninsula. All points of entry and exit are now blockaded and movement to and from the peninsula is strictly forbidden. The National Guard and State Patrol have been directed to maintain order by any means necessary, including the use of lethal force. The public throughout Western Washington is advised to stay at home. Starting at midnight tonight, anyone on the streets will be subject to arrest. Anyone not obeying orders of the National Guard or police may be shot.”
The announcer began reading a list of emergency telephone numbers and web sites available for public assistance. I glanced at McKean in the rear view mirror. “It’s do or die, now,” I said. “We’ll talk our way through the roadblocks.”
He didn’t reply. I briefly looked at him cradling his son in his arms and caressing the boy’s sweaty hair. My heart broke for him. He was facing the greatest tragedy a father could imagine. Then I noticed something I hadn’t seen before. He rubbed the corner of an eye with his knuckle. I recognized the same redness I had seen around Pete Whitehall’s and Leon Curtis’s eyes. My skin began to crawl as I noticed how beads of sweat had broken out on McKean’s brow, even though the car’s interior was cool. His cheeks looked more pale and gaunt than usual. His eyes had a vacant stare.
“Are you feeling all right, Peyton?” I asked.
McKean flinched a little at the sound of his name, but made no reply. The unavoidable, alarming conclusion sank in that Peyton McKean was coming down with the disease.
John Steel said, “He don’t look so good, Fin.”
“Not good at all,” I agreed. “His resistance has finally run out, just like your father said it would. And we’ve got more than two hundred miles to go.” I pushed the Mustang up over ninety and moved recklessly through the thinning traffic. A deep sense of dread grew in the pit of my gut as the miles flew by. I glanced at McKean from time to time, watching his stony expression. His eyes grew redder and more swollen. He constantly rubbed at one eye or the other. With more than four hours to go on the highway, I prayed we could reach the reservation before he developed a dangerous madness. His head twitched to one side. I tightened my grip on the wheel. There was nothing to do but drive hard while events took their course.
Traffic on the freeway dwindled as we moved south through Tacoma and turned onto westbound Highway 16 en route to the Kitsap Peninsula and ultimately the Olympic Peninsula. People were obeying the order to stay home and soon I was barreling down the center lane of an all but empty freeway. After five minutes on 16, the tall steel-and-concrete pylons of the Tacoma Narrows bridges loomed ahead of us. The two parallel spans, reminiscent of New York City’s George Washington bridge times two, arched across this mile-wide pinch point of Puget Sound. As I came down the hill approaching the bridges I had a good view of the roadblocks on both sides of the Narrows. On near and far sides, the medians between the two bridges are wide, paved, plaza-like spaces connecting the roadways, and these were being used to U-turn traffic to go back the way it had come. Long lines of orange-and-white jersey barriers cut diagonally across the freeway lanes and funneled traffic down to single lines, which were then directed across the median plazas and back the other way.
On our side, the westbound traffic funnel was empty. No one besides us, it seemed, was crazy enough to travel in that direction. However, the farside funnel held eastbound traffic in a massive three-lane jam, a backup that extended a mile or more to disappear around a forested bend. No vehicles whatsoever were being allowed across in the eastbound direction. Directed by hazmat-suited State Patrol officers whose cruisers sat behind the barricade with blue lights flashing, the would-be escapees in cars, trucks, and vacation vehicles were turned away one by one and sent across the median onto the westbound lanes to return to whatever fate awaited them on the peninsula. The whole process was slowed by the need of most drivers to plead with the troopers who steadfastly waved them on without much discussion. Supporting the troopers were two National Guard Humvees with .50 caliber machineguns and hazmat-suited gunners at the ready.
A separate line of orange-and-white jersey barriers had been set up at the midpoint of the eastbound span. This straight line of barriers was at a right angle to the roadway, and was open in the center with a checkpoint watched over by a Humvee and a group of guardsmen. There, a few westbound military vehicles waited to be cleared to cross onto the peninsula. There were supply trucks, Humvees, and a double-tank fuel truck, all in army-green camouflage paint. One by one, these official vehicles were being checked out and then waved forward to the far side of the bridge where they merged in the median with the line of turned-away vehicles heading back onto the peninsula.
I slowed as I approached the funneling barricade blocking our westbound course. Just as on the far side, a patrol car with lights flashing and an armed Humvee were stationed behind the barrier. A group of soldiers in hazmat suits with M-16s stood watch near the Humvee. One of two uniformed State Patrol officers waved me toward the turnaround route. I slowed and rolled down the passenger side window and called to the man. “We’ve got two sick people here who need to get to the other side.”
He stared at me grimly and said, “They’ll be a lot sicker if you get them over there.” He motioned for us to move along.
Suddenly, Peyton McKean addressed the trooper calmly but urg
ently. “Officer! I am a research scientist from Immune Corporation. I’m on a medical mission to Neah Bay, having to do with the virus. Please let us pass.” The disease had relinquished its hold on McKean temporarily, just as with Pete Whitehall. His eyes shown with their customary keen intelligence, although they were surrounded by puffy redness.
“Sorry, sir,” the trooper said firmly. “Orders are, no one but military gets through.” He put a hand on his holster to suggest that he would draw and use his pistol if necessary. At that moment, his fellow officer exclaimed, “Look at that!”
The cops turned to look at the bridge, and we followed their gazes to an incredible sight on the far side of the eastbound span. A large motor home had pulled out of the jammed traffic at the plaza and rammed through the jersey barriers. It roared up the span toward the center checkpoint with the crackle of M-16 fire following it. As it neared the checkpoint, the popping of additional gunfire and puffs of smoke erupted from a dozen guardsmen’s M-16s. Sparks and window-glass flew but motor home kept coming. As it neared the center-span barricade, the thudding of the Humvee’s .50 caliber machine gun joined the chorus M-16s. Heavy rounds rattled through the sheet metal of the motor home and by the time the big vehicle reached the barricades, it was swerving with its windshields shattered out and its driver no doubt already dead. It drifted sideways crazily with all tires screeching, knocked the barricades in all directions, and overturned. It slid into a fuel truck waiting at the checkpoint and the collision smashed the two vehicles into one merged mass of twisted metal, spinning them in a semicircular arc that rammed them against the bridge cables. The impact caused the roadway to writhe like a giant serpent. A moment after the wrecks came to rest, a small billow of orange flame rose from the space between them.
“Oh, my God,” the trooper nearest us called to his companion, “if that fuel truck - ” His words trailed off as the forward fuel tank ripped apart in an explosion that sent a colossal billow of orange flame high among the steel suspension cables overhead.
In this astonishing moment, McKean tapped me on the shoulder and whispered calmly, “Roll forward.” I did as he suggested, leaving behind the dumbstruck state troopers and guardsmen who had abandoned their roles as traffic cops to watch the horror on the bridge. When I reached the eastbound roadway at the end of the jersey barrier, McKean cried, “Turn right!”
“What?” I exclaimed. “They’ll shoot us if we go that way.”
“No they won’t. No one is watching us!”
I cranked the steering wheel hard right and pushed the accelerator down. We moved quickly around the end of the barrier and onto the span westbound.
“I’m no James Bond!” I protested. “I hope you know what you’re getting us into.”
“Of course I do, Fin. Look at the barricade.”
Ahead of us, the center barricade had been swept away by the skidding motor home. Furthermore, the fireball that had erupted from the fuel truck had sent the guardsmen diving for cover. The center lane ahead of us was wide open.
I floored the gas pedal and the Mustang hurtled up the span. As we neared the barricade, a soldier with an M-16 appeared from behind the Humvee, which had been deserted when its crew jumped down to escape the fireball. The foot soldier hesitated a moment, uncertain whether to shoot at us or not.
“Everybody get down!” I shouted. I leaned over to make myself a smaller target but kept the accelerator on the floor. The gap at the checkpoint was two lanes wide. I reached it at breakneck speed and raced between the blazing wreckage and the Humvee. The soldier raised his M 16 and stepped in front of us briefly, but leaped out of the way to save his own life. As we passed the checkpoint, he fired a single burst of bullets that went high. I kept the accelerator floored, my heart pounding in the expectation that the next bullet would rip through my chest. Instead, a new explosion erupted from the second fuel tank, sending out another huge ball of flame. The guardsmen dove for safety again. The concussion of the explosion made the Mustang fishtail as it hurtled down the far side of the span.
“Hoo-wee!” John Steel cried. “You made it!”
“Don’t be so sure,” I muttered as we raced toward the farside blockade. The gunners of the two Humvees stationed there tracked our approach with their weapons. I slowed, and slowed again. A state trooper dressed in a dayglo green tactical vest and black hazmat suit with plastic faceplate emerged from behind one of the patrol cars. He held up a gloved hand commanding us to stop. I heeded his order, understanding that to run this blockade with so much firepower trained on us was to face the same fate as the motor home driver. I halted near the officer with the nose of my Mustang aimed hopefully toward where the turnaround traffic re-entered the lanes of the westbound freeway.
The officer covered us with his pistol and called out, “You’ve gotta be nuts!”
“We’ve got to get through to Neah Bay!” I exclaimed, but he waved a hand to silence me as a radio call came in on a walkie-talkie microphone clipped to his shoulder.
“Direct them westbound,” the radio voice said. “Do not let them return eastbound.”
“Well, I guess it’s your lucky day,” he said to me sarcastically, waving us on. As I rolled forward to merge into the turn-away traffic, he called after us, “What the hell. You’ll get yourself killed anyway.”
Beyond the turnaround, we moved with sporadic westbound traffic that starkly contrasted with the stupendous jam across the median. I glanced at the bridge in my rearview mirror and saw a tremendous pyre of flaming wreckage at mid-span. The burning fuel from the tanker had flowed in both directions along the span’s gutters. The entire arch of the bridge was blazing like a hellish orange rainbow. Black smoke towered into the overcast sky. When a low forested hill intervened, I accelerating along the almost deserted westbound lanes of Highway 16.
John Steel said, “Man, that’s one hella big fireworks show. Talk about burning your bridges behind you!”
I glanced back at Peyton McKean. Slumped into the corner of his seat with his boy cradled across his body, he had gone silent again. His jaw was clenched shut. His red, puffy eyes had resumed their vacant stare. The disease had allowed him a moment of lucidity at the bridge but now it took him in its clutches again. His head twitched powerfully to the side.
Beyond the bridge chokepoint and its jammed traffic, the freeway quickly became deserted in both directions. Having entered the Kitsap Peninsula from the southeast, I followed the freeway past the darkened towns of Gig Harbor, Bremerton, Silverdale and Poulsbo, on a route paralleling Hood Canal and the east flank of the Olympic Mountains. We crossed the Hood Canal floating bridge at the north end of the Kitsap Peninsula and moved onto the Olympic Peninsula with no further incidents. I made good speed on the empty highways. The only police or army vehicles we saw were headed south, retreating to fallback positions in the towns we had passed. The road shrank to a two-laner as we raced past the Port Townsend turnoff and headed west along the north shore of the Olympic Peninsula.
As we skirted the south end of Sequim Bay, John Steel sat up and turned to look at me. “Why do you keep doing that?” he asked.
“Doing what?” I replied, but in an instant I knew what he meant. I had taken one hand off the steering wheel to rub a knuckle at the corner of an eye. A wave of adrenaline rolled through me. “Oh, my God,” I said. “I’ve got the disease. Your father knew this would happen. It got the boy, and then McKean, and now me, in the order of how much sea spinach we ate. I ate the most, and I’m the last to go.”
We said nothing more, but as I drove along the forest-lined highway I noticed other signs of the virus stirring in me. A splitting headache pounded inside my cranium. Bouts of blurred vision made it hard to concentrate on the highway.
“Watch out, man!” Steel shouted, grabbing the wheel and wrenching it sideways. I shook myself free of a trance-like state to discover that I had let the Mustang wander onto the gravel of the opposite shoulder. Steel held the wheel and steered us back to the right side of the road. C
oming to my senses and spotting a driveway ahead, I took the wheel and swerved into it, letting the Mustang roll to a halt in a wide empty asphalt parking lot. I shut off the engine and got out. I wiped both hands over my face and tried to quell my pounding heart. My hands trembled. My senses reeled. The entire world seemed to whirl around me.
John Steel got out and joined me on my side of the car. “You okay?” he asked.
I shook my head negatively and closed my eyes until the sense of spinning subsided. After a moment, I glanced inside the car at McKean. He was a scary sight, slumped in the corner of the back seat, rigid and trembling. Sweat covered his brow. His eyes were open wide as if staring at some invisible horror. The boy looked comatose and almost peaceful, but also deathly pale.
A sudden loud cawing noise spun me around. A mob of crows was on the ground in front of a large building at the back of the parking lot.
“Well, well,” Steel remarked, looking at the facade of the building. “Look where you brought us, Fin. The Seven Cedars Casino.”
The casino was a large complex of peaked roofs fronted by seven huge totem poles. Behind the central trio of totems was the peak-roofed marquee of the main entrance. The crows were pecking at a dark form lying in the middle of the marquee drive.
“This is the S’Klallam tribal casino,” Steel said, walking toward the building. “It looks empty.”
I felt better for the moment. Glad to be out in the fresh air, I drew a deep breath and followed Steel toward the casino. As we approached, the crows took to the air, cawing loudly.