The Rift

by Walter Jon Williams

  Natchez Weekly Chronicle, January 20, 1812

  The thing about helicopters was the way gravity kept moving around. G forces went up, down, sideways, and sometimes in circles. The shifts from one state to the next were often very sudden. Jessica loved helicopters. But then she liked roller-coaster rides, too. She sat up front, in the copilot’s seat, where she could get a view of the world zooming past.

  The pilot was happy to impress the general with a display of his skills. He skimmed his Bell Kiowa over the WES, banked, put the chopper’s nose down, and headed south. Adrenaline sang happily in Jessica’s veins.

  Pity she’d never had time to learn how to fly one of these things.

  “Just follow the river,” Jessica said. She watched with interest—this was the best view she’d had since the quake—as the Kiowa Warrior sped over the flat, tree-filled country below Vicksburg’s bluff. At least a third of the trees seem to have fallen. The roads were blocked with fallen timber and cut by crevasses or sudden uplifts. Of the few structures Jessica could see, most were heavily damaged, especially the larger buildings.

  She clenched her teeth at the sight of the broken levees, the way the river continued to pour through the gaps. Those were USACE levees, damn it, and Corps levees hadn’t broken since the 1930s. And now when it happened, it was on Jessica’s watch.

  She should have covered her ass. All it would have taken was a letter in her file, directed to her superiors, expressing concern about earthquake preparedness. “I was working on it from Day One,” she could have said, “but my superiors didn’t respond in time. And the record supports this.” Still, there was small comfort to be drawn. Jessica saw no sign of massive failure in the levees, no huge mile-long crevasses. The levees didn’t look as if they’d broken all at once; they showed every sign of having been weakened, not destroyed, in the quake. And then river water, with the weight of the whole Mississippi behind it, pushed inexorably into the levees’ weak points, strained the structures, crawled underneath to undermine the levees from below, put more pressure on them until at last they gave way. The flooding wouldn’t have been catastrophically sudden, and Jessica hoped this meant people had a chance to get away from the rising water.

  It also meant that once the floods subsided, repair would be that much easier. The pilot’s voice grated on Jessica’s headphones. “There’s your power plant, General.” She looked up and saw the distinctive outline of a cooling tower rising above the trees, the graceful white double curves. But the grace was marred, she saw, part of it had peeled away like the rind of a fruit. Her heart gave a lurch. She wasn’t sure she was ready for this.

  The Kiowa sped past the tower, and the pilot banked to give Jessica a view of the plant. Poinsett Landing was a wreck, most of its buildings broken, the river streaming through the wreckage. There was evidence of fire. The big black cube that held the reactor was intact, though—no shattered roof and pillar of murderous radioactive smoke a la Chernobyl, thank God—but the two big buildings leaning against the reactor, which she assumed were control structures, had clearly suffered degrees of damage. The pilot’s voice interrupted Jessica’s thoughts. “This isn’t a nuke plant, is it, General?”

  “Yes. This is nuclear.”

  “Should we be wearing moon suits? Shall I get us some altitude?”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary.” She hoped.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jessica noticed, however, that the Kiowa began to crab slightly away from the reactor complex. A little caution in the pilot’s hands. And then one of the hands pointed.

  “Some survivors, General. On that little hill over there.”

  The Kiowa rotated in space while maintaining its bank, and Jessica saw a clump of people—waving, jumping up and down, probably screaming their heads off—on a flat grassy hill near the perimeter fence.

  “Call your outfit,” Jessica said. “Tell them we need a dustoff.” Larry Hallock let the others run waving and shouting as the Army helicopter roared overhead. He was too tired and hungry and sore to race around like a lunatic, so he just sat on the tailgate of Bill Henry’s camper pickup, cradled his arm, and waited.

  The burned man had died in the night, screaming. Some of the injured were nearly comatose. No one had been able to help.

  He had expected rescue before now. Someone in the Department of Energy, someone in the power company. He had figured he’d see the first helicopters silhouetted against the red dawn. Instead it had been hours. Things must be worse out there than he’d thought.

  And while he waited, he’d seen that there was a current in the flood waters. Up till the morning they had been still, a calm brown lake that ringed the old Indian mound. But then the waters had begun to move. The debris that had been floating atop the water was carried away downstream, and as time passed the debris began moving by faster. Larry had watched to see if the level of the water was declining, if the current meant that the flood was draining away.

  But the water level didn’t fall, and the current grew in power. Which meant that Poinsett Landing, the reactor vessel included, now sat on part of the bed of the Mississippi River. There was a flurry of people running to their vehicles, and then cars and trucks began to clear an area on top of the mound. The roar of the chopper increased to painful levels, a jet whine combined with the flogging of the rotors, and Larry felt blasts of wind on his face. The copter—it seemed pretty small for something that could make such a big noise—settled with surprising grace onto the cleared space of the mound.

  Larry dropped off the pickup gate and shuffled toward the helicopter, holding his injured arm. His neck and shoulder throbbed. Some of the other people had suggested he’d broken a collarbone, but it was impossible to tell without an X ray.

  A door slid open on the side of the helicopter, and an officer jumped out. A woman, Larry saw with some surprise. A short woman. A short woman with a flier’s helmet and Ray-Bans and camouflage fatigues and the stars of a general.

  Larry blinked. When the government finally got around to moving, it moved with authority.

  “Do you have any injured?” the woman general shouted. “And who is in charge?” Lieutenant Grimsley was a National Guard second lieutenant with washed-out blue eyes and a dusting of acne on his cheeks. “Sheriff,” he told Omar, “I’m supposed to tell you that we’re pulling out.”

  “What?” Omar blinked at Grimsley sleepily.

  Omar stood out in front of the courthouse, supervising the crews that were chainsawing away the fallen limbs of the lawn’s blackjack oaks. The old trees had taken a beating, and a couple of them were going to have to be cut down.

  The Mourning Confederate, looking somberly down from his pillar, had survived without a scratch or a crack. Omar liked to think of it as an omen.

  “The President has called up our outfit,” Grimsley said.

  “We’re heading north to help restore order in Arkansas.” Grimsley seemed proud of this fact. Omar tried to clear the weariness from his mind. He had caught a couple hours’ sleep toward dawn, but he’d been wakened by an aftershock and the jolt of electricity the shock had put in his veins had kept him from getting back to sleep.

  “But what about Spottswood Parish?” Omar asked. “We need you boys here.”

  “Sorry, Sheriff. But things here are pretty much under control, and I guess the President figured we’d be more useful up north.”

  Faggot President, Omar thought wearily. This was just like that asshole.

  “When do you boys pull out?” he asked.

  “Soon’s we can load up the trucks with seventy-two hours’ rations.”

  “Well.” Omar offered his hand. “Good luck, son.”

  They shook hands. “Thanks, Sheriff.”

  A chainsaw stuttered as it caught an oakwood knot. Omar looked up, felt sweat trickle down the back of his neck.

  He’d done his job, he figured. More than the President had. And voters would remember that come the next election.

  Omar figured
his career was right on track.

  Omar was at the armory when the National Guard pulled out. All those guardsmen were voters—some were even his deputies—and he figured that it would be a good thing to pump a few hands as they loaded up.

  The guardsmen were in battle dress and helmets, and they carried their rifles. All except one man, who Omar to his surprise recognized as Micah Knox.

  “I’m heading north.” Knox grinned. “Your Guard are giving me a ride.”

  “Great,” Omar said.

  Knox indicated the heavy duffel bag on his shoulder. “I went by your house and picked up my stuff,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Your house is okay, by the way. Your buddy Ozie was there with his trucks and jacks. He said that you and Winona can move back in tonight.”

  “Great.” Omar looked at the duffel, at the way it weighed on the kid’s shoulder, and knew that Knox had retrieved his firearms and ammunition.

  Well. At least he was taking the guns out of town.

  “Hey, Sheriff! Hold still for a picture!”

  Omar turned to see Sorrell Ellen of the Spottswood Chronicle pointing a camera. He sensed Knox fade quickly from the frame. Omar stepped in the other direction just as the camera flashed. Omar blinked as purple blooms filled his vision. “Dang,” Sorrell said. “You moved.”

  “Why don’t you get a picture of me saying good-bye to one of my deputies?” Omar said.

  “That’s good,” Sorrell agreed.

  He led Sorrell toward one of the trucks parked on the gravel drive in front of the armory. He saw Micah Knox fading away behind another truck, his heavy duffel bearing down one thin shoulder.

  “Do you have any comments on the emergency?” Sorrell asked.

  “Just that I’m very proud of the way my department has responded,” Omar said. “We’ve kept order, helped save lives, maintained communications that were vital to the parish.” Sorrell jotted this down. “Several of your deputies are moving out with the Guard, aren’t they?” he asked.

  “Aren’t you going to be short-handed?”

  Omar left that unanswered as he spotted one of his deputies, Frank Schwinn, in the act of loading gear onto the truck. He and Schwinn paused for the photo, and by that time Sorrell had forgotten about his last question.

  Deputies, Omar thought. He was going to need to make some more, and he figured he knew just who to call.

  Hell, he was their Kleagle.

  SIXTEEN

  Precisely at 2 o’clock on Monday morning, the 16th instant, we were all alarmed by the violent and convulsive agitation of the boats, accompanied by a noise similar to that which would have been produced by running over a sand bar—every man was immediately roused and rushed upon deck.—We were first of opinion that the Indians, studious of some mischief, had loosed our cables, and thus situated we were foundering. Upon examination, however, we discovered we were yet safely and securely moored. The idea of an earthquake then suggested itself to my mind, and this idea was confirmed by a second shock, and two others in immediate succession. These continued for the space of eight minutes. So complete and general had been the convulsion, that a tremendous motion was communicated to the very leaves on the surface of the earth. A few yards from the spot where we lay, the body of a large oak was snapped in two, and the falling part precipitated to the margin of the river; the trees in the forest shook like rushes; the alarming clattering of their branches may be compared to the affect which would be produced by a severe wind passing through a large cane brake.

  Exposed to a most unpleasant alternative, we were compelled to remain—here we were for the night, or subject ourselves to imminent hazard in navigating through the innumerable obstructions in the river; considering the danger of running two-fold, we concluded to remain. At the dawn of day I went on shore to examine the effects of the shocks; the earth about 20 feet from the water’s edge was deeply cracked, but no visible injury of moment had been sustained; fearing, however, to remain longer where we were, it was thought much advisable to leave our landing as expeditiously as possible; this was immediately done—at a few rods distance from the shore, we experienced a fifth shock, more severe than either of the preceding. I had expected this from the louring appearance of the weather, it was indeed most providential that we had started, for such was the strength of this last shock, that the bank to which we were (but a few moments since) attached, was rent and fell into the river, whilst the trees rushed from the forests, precipitating themselves into the water with a force sufficient to have dashed us into a thousand atoms.

  Chronicle of Mr. Pierce, December 25, 1811

  Jason poled Retired and Gone Fishin’ through the stillness of the trees. His passenger Nick had begun to drowse in one of the front seats. This was all right with Jason. He preferred to be alone with his thoughts. The cottonwoods gave way to pine, and the floods slowly ebbed, bringing the tops of bushes and saplings above the water. Other than Nick, he saw no human being.

  Edge Living, Jason thought. He’d hung posters to Edge Living in his room, but he’d never known what Edge Living was: living like a refugee, bereft of food, water, and shelter; lost in a disaster that seemed to have overtaken the whole world.

  That was the Edge, all right. And Jason didn’t want it anymore.

  Eventually the boat floated up to an unbroken green levee stretching left and right across its path. Dozens of cows, white with black splotches, grazed on the levee’s grassy flanks, which they shared with large refugee flocks of birds. Jason looked in each direction and realized he’d floated into the channel of a small river. Turning right, he thought, would take him back to the Mississippi, and a left turn would take him inland. He poled the boat to the levee and felt the bow thud up its grassy bank. Nick opened his eyes. “What’s happening?” he said.

  “Thought I’d go up the levee and look to see which way to go,” Jason said.

  “I’ll do it,” Nick said.

  Jason was sick of the boat and wanted to go himself, but Nick jumped out of the boat as if he wanted to make all the decisions, and so as Nick walked up the flank of the levee, Jason just sighed and leaned on his pole to keep the boat’s bow pressed firmly on the grass.

  “More water on the other side,” Nick reported from the top. He looked inland, took a few more steps to get a better view. “Can’t see much but trees,” he said.

  Jason scratched at the mud that coated his arm, sending flakes spiraling to the boat’s deck. Insects hummed about his ears.

  And then there was a bellow, and a yell, and Nick came pelting back down the bank. “Jesusjesusjesus!” he panted, and Jason looked in surprise to see an enraged cow topping the levee. The cow paused for a moment, its head swinging back and forth in search of a target, and then it spotted Nick again, lowered its horns, and began to charge down the bank.

  “Jesusjesusjesus!”

  Nick shoved at the boat’s bow, pushed it into the water, and threw himself headlong across the foredeck. The cow paused partway down the flank of the levee, its forefeet spread in challenge. The boat swung out onto the water.

  Jason collapsed in laughter, the pole clattering under his arm. Nick glared at him from the bows.

  “God damn it! This isn’t funny!”

  Laughter continued to erupt from Jason. The boat spun as it drifted across the flat, shimmering surface of the water.

  Nick crawled across the foredeck and dropped into one of the seats. “It isn’t funny,” he insisted. “Bulls are dangerous.”

  “That’s not a bull!” Jason laughed. He pointed. “It’s a cow! It’s got that bag thing between its legs!” The boat spun lazily in the water and gave Nick a good look at the cow. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. But cows have horns, too.”

  This struck Jason as the most hilarious thing he’d ever heard. Water sloshed in the bottom of the boat as he sat on a corner of the stern while the laughter bent him double. Nick glowered for a long moment, then ventured a reluctant smile.
“Well,” he said, “I’ve had no luck with wildlife today, that’s for sure.” Jason clutched his aching sides. Dried mud flaked off him like a brown blizzard. He ran out of air and his laughter ran dry. A hiccup straightened him up in surprise, and then he began laughing again. Laughter and hiccups alternated as the boat spiraled down the river. Finally the laughter faded.

  “Sorry,” Jason said finally.

  Nick looked resentfully at the cow. “I wish I could come back here and turn that cow into steaks.” Jason looked over his shoulder and remembered how hungry he was. He hiccuped. “Guess that’s what the cow was worried about,” he said.

  Nick rubbed his eyes. “I think the cow was just crazy. That quake made everything crazy—people, animals, the river…” He shook his head. “Wish I’d kept that snake. Could’ve eaten it.” Jason looked at him. “Snake?”

  “Never mind.” Nick sat up straighter, peered over the boat’s bows. “Are those cattails over there? Could you pole us closer?”

  Cattails, Jason thought. Snakes. It occurred to him that his passenger could be as crazy as the cow. He hiccuped.

  He picked up the pole and trailed one end overboard, like a brake, till the boat’s spinning motion ceased, and then he dug the pole into the creek bottom and propelled it toward the patch of cattails. The tails’ sodden heads were just above the water. Nick hung over the side of the boat and began pulling the cattails up from the bottom of the creek. He threw them flopping over the boat’s little foredeck. Jason watched Nick carefully in case he turned out to be crazy.

  “Cattails are edible,” Nick said. “We can fill our stomachs with these.” Jason looked at the slimy plants lying on the foredeck. “You first.”