by Pamela Davis
John thought, and then said, "A writer's block?"
"Yeah, that's it," Sam replied. "'Cept this is a...a dreaming block. Yeah, that's what it is. You have the dreams but you don't remember them. Maybe cause they're scary, huh, Dad?"
"Uh, yeah, Sam, I guess that is why," John answered, looking stunned.
Mrs. Philpott spoke up. "Samantha, all we have to do is take you and Harry and Perceval to see people--look at them--and then you will know?"
"Yeah," Sam replied. "But we don't have to be together. And Harry and Perceval can run around and talk to the other animals and they can find out about a lot of them that way. Lots of people have cats and dogs. So you just have to take me to people--'cause I think I would get too tired running around like that all day!"
Mrs. Philpott smiled and said, "That's true, Sam. Okay, your Mom and Dad and I will figure out the best way for you to meet the people in town and look at them. Why don't you and Harry go watch that movie now? Oh, and Sam--that was a great idea."
Samantha's face lit up with a big smile, and then she skipped from the room with Harry at her side.
Jessica was the first to speak. "All right, I'm trying to be calm here. But it's damn hard! Are we going on the premise that Samantha, my daughter, who, by the way, is only six years old--that she is now telepathic or something?"
Mrs. Philpott took off her wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed her face vigorously. Taking a deep breath, she said, "I don't know what to think, Jessica, what to call it, but yes, I think we have to believe that Sam knows what she's talking about. We know she has been having the dreams herself. We know she communicates with Harry." She held up a hand to forestall Jessica's comments. "I know, I know you didn't really believe she was talking to the dog, but she is. And apparently she talks to Perceval now too. Is that right?" she asked, turning to the cat.
Perceval nudged the computer screen around so they could all see what he had been typing there while they talked.
WHAT SHE SAID IS TRUE
DON'T KNOW WHY I DIDN'T THINK OF DOING IT THIS WAY
THAT KID IS SMART
YES SHE TALKS TO ME AND TO HARRY AND WE TO HER
IT IS AN ABILITY--TELEPATHY IS PROBABLY CLOSEST TO WHAT IT IS
PEOPLE HAD THE ABILITY LONG AGO--LOST IT
NOW GAIA HELPS THOSE WHO ARE NEEDED TO UNLOCK ABILITY AGAIN
While they digested his message, Perceval typed again, using his modified mouse pad.
HOW ABOUT PARTY HERE
LOT OF PEOPLE AT ONE TIME THAT WAY
John thought for a minute and then said, "Maybe you should take up selling Avon or some door-to-door product, Jessica, where you could take Sam with you. That could get you into a lot of places."
Jessica said, "Oh, John!" and put her face in her hands.
Air Force Base Flight line, Fort Walton Beach, Florida
"I don't know how much longer I can do this, Captain, sir," said Corporal Barnes.
Captain Coleman looked at the young man's face and saw beads of sweat pouring off his brow. They were inside the C-130, commonly known in the military as the Hercules, one of the largest cargo aircraft ever built. There was only one C-130 on the base presently and Capt. Coleman and the corporal had run for it, climbing into the huge airplane right before the strong winds began. Coleman knew that once the storm ended, it was possible that supplies would be needed, and the cargo plane would come in handy for transporting goods and personnel. He hadn't believed the lieutenant had accurately read the radar. He'd been through hurricanes before, and knew that one popping up out of nowhere was flatly impossible. He did believe what he saw with his own eyes, however, and the storm that clobbered the base was enough to worry him. Normally in a storm, the planes, if there was enough warning, were flown off the base to another location. If that was impossible, they were tied down and secured. But there had been no time for that. He and the corporal were taking turns pressing the brakes on the aircraft, trying to hold it in place and prevent it crashing into a building.
Coleman said, "All right, son, I've got it now. You take a rest." He had to shout to be heard over the noise of the wind and rain. He was beginning to worry about the other men he'd sent out to some of the smaller fighter jets. The wind was not what it should be. A regular storm would have stopped by now. This wind just seemed to be getting worse. Almost like a hurricane. Dammit, he thought, not almost like a hurricane--definitely like a hurricane. He'd never seen anything like this before.
A new and different noise rose over the sound of the storm. Corporal Barnes lifted the canvas covering the side window and looked out. After a moment, he turned an ashen face to the Captain. "They're go-go-gone, s-s-sir," he said shakily. "Into the control tower--all twisted up--two, or maybe three--oh, my God, sir, they're gone!"
"The fighters?" asked Coleman tensely.
"Y-y-yes, sir," replied Barnes. "Do you--do you suppose they got out, sir? Maybe they got out?"
Coleman looked directly into the Corporal's eyes. "No, son, I don't suppose they did."
Barnes took a deep breath and blinked back tears. He wouldn't think about it right now, he thought. Captain Coleman needed him to do a job.
"Right, sir," he said. "What should I do next?"
Houston, Texas
"Who's got a working cell phone?" yelled the mayor, straining to be heard over the eerie howling noise above her head. "Dammit, somebody get me something to talk to the outside world with--and do it now!"
Mayor Dusty Dubois was distinctly unhappy. And absolutely terrified. She and her staff and everyone else who'd been in City Hall were beneath the streets of downtown Houston now in the tunnels. Decades ago, Houston city planners had built an extensive network of tunnels beneath the buildings and streets of downtown. One enterprising individual realized he could make a few bucks selling fast food in the tunnel and opened a business below ground. Eventually the tunnels were lined with restaurants and shops and a thriving tunnel economy developed. It was now possible to walk in air-conditioned comfort from one end of downtown to the other without ever having to set foot on sun-melted black asphalt streets. Each tunnel had a character all its own; some were carpeted in plush red pile or sophisticated grays, some exhibited artistic patterns made of ceramic tiles. Entrances to skyscrapers above were reached by escalators and elevators which emerged in the buildings themselves.
When the wind and rain began around one p.m., the Mayor wasn't alarmed. By two p.m., she was getting reports that the storm was looking like a hurricane. By three p.m., her staff was advising evacuation of the city--except that the flooding had already begun in some lowlying areas and roads were being cut off. Highways were jammed with cars in the most massive gridlock the traffic controllers had ever seen. It was now eight p.m., the winds were screaming over their heads, and the officials in the tunnels were suffering from varying degrees of panic. Electricity and water were lost early in the evening. The only communication was sporadic over a ham radio and an occasional connection on a cellular telephone that was now non-functioning.
"So you're telling me I can't talk to anyone?" the Mayor asked, demanding of her assistant in outraged tones. Her pudgy features shook with rage at the helplessness of her situation.
"Ma'am, I'm sorry, sometimes we can get that radio to work, but all our electronics are shot down here," said her assistant, Alan Beakman. He towered over the mayor at six feet, two inches, his coal-black face furrowed by a grimace of frustration. Mayor Dubois' choice of an African-American male, who looked like a body-builder, to be her chief of staff was a shock to her constituents, but had gotten her the black vote in her re-election last November. He had surprised her by becoming her right-hand man, and she stared at him now in disbelief that he was not able to help her with the communications problem.
At that moment, a sheriff's deputy, soaked to the skin, came running up to the mayor and Beakman. "Ma'am," he paused, gulping for breath, "Ma'am--Ms. Mayor--you gotta get out on the radio--you gotta tell them out there--a warning or something--"
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Beakman stretched out a hand and placed it on the deputy's shoulder, saying, "Hold on now, man. Just slow down and tell the mayor here what's happened. Take a deep breath."
The man took a breath and then said, "It's the glass, ma'am. Huge big sheets of glass flyin' down the streets up there--that wind musta popped those plate glass windows out of the skyscrapers or somethin'--but the Sheriff-- he stepped outside and--and-- one got him! Ma'am, I'm sorry but it got him. His head--ma'am, his head just got took plumb off by one of those flyin' pieces of glass--I, I..." He stuttered to a stop.
Mayor Dubois noticed the flecks of blood splattered across the deputy's clothes and face. "Oh, Lord," she breathed. Looking up at Beakman, she said, "Alan, take him somewhere, get somebody to clean him up, and get him something to drink--something strong if anybody's got it."
He nodded and guided the dazed deputy away.
His boss walked slowly over to the radio operator's desk, shaking her head. This cannot be happening, she thought. She heard her thoughts echoed by an irritating nasal voice.
The voice belonged to Dr. Sheffield Hutton, who was shouting at the cowering radio operator, "This can't be happening! I have to get through to Washington to get transport out of this hell hole! Now, you find a military frequency or do what you have to do to connect me to D.C. now!"
Mayor Dubois planted her stout, square body directly between the screaming scientist and the radio operator. Raising her voice to be heard over the din of the storm, she said firmly, "Now hold on there, doctor. Nobody's calling Washington. We have more of a crisis going on here than getting you back home."
Sheffield glared at her, outraged. Her very appearance offended his sensibilities. His eyes roved over her page-boy styled, silver-gray hair, steely gray eyes behind silver framed glasses, and thin lips that were now saying something he couldn't hear above the noise. How did this inadequate, dumpy, frumpy bitch of a woman get to be mayor of a city this size, he wondered. Even as he thought the question, however, he knew the answer. Her family had more money than his, money made from some of the richest oil wells in Texas. She was a product of the Texas political machine which was fueled by money, greed, and corruption. But she had turned the tables on that machinery once she was fully ensconced in office for her second term and outraged the hard-drinking, old white boys by hiring more Latinos and Blacks than any government official before. She was a liberal in conservative clothing--and what rumpled clothing it was, thought Sheffield, as he stared at her wrinkled knee-length gray linen suit and ugly, square-toed black shoes.
"Now you listen here," he began, only to be cut off by the mayor pointing a finger in his face.
"Pipe down, Doctor! You aren't going anywhere until the rest of us do, so get used to it," the mayor stated forcefully. "Now--you're some kind of scientist, aren't you? Why don't you put that brain of yours to work and tell me what the hell is going on with this storm? My weather people say there was no indication of a hurricane coming, so what happened? And why are we getting winds at this speed? Last I heard it was 150 miles an hour, consistently--and that's just not right. The storms we get around here, the winds slow down as soon as it hits land--and that is not happening...what gives, Doc?"
He stared at her, wanting nothing more than to hit her, hard, across her ugly face. But he'd realized he was at the mercy of this woman and her staff. Angrily, he stated, "I don't know. It seems impossible. Your weather people must be wrong. Probably don't know how to read radar. But we do have to get out of here."
"And why is that, Doctor? We're safe from the wind--and other dangers--down here. We have food and water. This is our emergency shelter for City Hall. I think we should be okay here."
Sheffield cut her off. "Mayor, do you understand that we are underground here? If this storm is as bad as it sounds, eventually there will be flooding. Now what do you think will happen to us when these tunnels start filling up with water? Plus, you've lost power, With damage to structure above ground you may end up with very poor air quality as gas and other chemicals are released."
Mayor Dubois stared at him for a moment, and then burst into action. Abruptly turning from Sheffield, she said to the radio operator, "Get ready to pack up your gear. Bring whatever you can with you in case we get a chance to use it again...Oh, wait, before you do that--put out a 'Flying Glass Warning' for downtown Houston. Tell whoever you reach to put out the word that nobody--and I mean nobody--is to come into the downtown area until this is over. You got that?"
"Yes, ma'am!" said the operator, turning to his radio.
Swinging back to Sheffield, she said, voice filled with contempt, "And just when were you going to point out this piece of information, Doc? After you'd found a way to get yourself out of here? You were in my office when we decided to come down here. You know as well as I do we have no engineers with us, no emergency management people, only the folks who happened to be in City Hall. You are as close to an expert as I've got right now. From here on out, if there is anything, anything I need to know about this storm and its consequences, you tell me, pronto."
Before he could respond, the mayor bustled off, barking orders to subordinates to pack up equipment and supplies.
Viruna Mountains, Rwanda, Africa
My search is over. I began traveling a week ago through the trees on the mountains. I kept thinking I would see one of my own kind somewhere, that I couldn't be the last one. When my mother used to speak of the woman who watched, she told me about the woman's fears. Fears that one day our mountain home would be destroyed and that our kind would then vanish. The woman called it the extinction of the mountain gorilla. My mother told me that the woman was killed for trying to prevent our extinction and that we should always remember and honor her. My mother lived to be very old. To think of her now is a pain in my heart. I keep thinking she would know what to do, but I know there is really nothing to do. Nothing can be done now.
The voice in the mountain is my companion in these last days. I hear it rumble in the black night as I stare up at my blanket of stars. The rumble tells me I am not the only one who is soon to die. My mother taught me to listen to the voice. She said it lived in the trees and rocks and earth. When the others came and cut down our trees to make farms, the voice told us where to travel for the best new home. The voice was our teacher, our guide, in the ways of living life.
As I lie in my nest of leaves, I can see the smoke billowing out of the mountaintop. Soon the rumble will be a roar, and the fire will spew out and flow down into the farms of the others. I do not feel anything about that. It just is what will happen. My feelings are gone now. I have seen too many die.
At first, when the oldest silverback got sick, I felt sad, but I knew he was very old and his time was over. But the blood that flowed from his eyes and mouth scared me. Then the other two males became ill and I was frantic, beating my chest and trying to rouse them from their nests of blood and dirt and leaves. Still I thought there was hope.
As my baby clung to my back and I raced away from this dying place, I hoped to find others left on the mountain. But halfway to the place where I last saw the others of my kind, I felt you slide from my back, tiny hands falling limp at your sides as I caught you and held you close. And smelled the coppery scent of blood caking your eyes and seeping from your mouth. I watched the life drain out of your dark eyes, little one. I will never tell you the stories of my mother and her mother, of the voice we hear in all living things. I will never watch you play, sliding down the grassy slopes, never feel your tiny fingers combing through my hair. I will never see you with your own babies.
And you were the last baby for me. When I reached the place of the only other group of us remaining in these mountains, I found death yet again. A sickness had been there, but not the blood sickness. This was the sickness of the others who came and laid traps, who stole babies, who cut down our homes. The others had come and left behind the bodies of the last males--headless bodies, bodies without hands or feet. It had happened before, but I
had never seen the horrible truth of it until today. When I was young, my mother took me to a place of honor for one who died in this way, hands and head chopped off, and the woman who cried for him. Now I could see it for myself. I could almost hear the machetes as they whistled through the air and then met with a thwack the fur and skin, and muscle and bone, and carved the bodies into death.
Soon, I, too, will be gone. I have not bothered to eat, for there is no reason to survive now. I lie here growing weaker, talking to you, little one, held close in my arms. Telling the stories of our kind, hearing the voice of the earth tell hers, waiting...waiting for the end.
Chapter 6
Somewhere on Highway 20, between Hattiesburg and Jackson, Mississippi
"I can't believe I'm doing this," Andy muttered. Glancing from the road to Waldo, he shook his head, as if to shake off a daze, or perhaps a spell. "Yeah, that's it--it's a spell...and she's a witch and you're really not a dog at all, are you?"
Waldo continued to sit calmly in the passenger seat staring at the road ahead. Andy was having problems Waldo couldn't really help him with at this point.
Continuing his monologue, Andy gripped the steering wheel and tried to marshal his thoughts into some kind of logical sense. "It started at that store in Hattiesburg. That girl with the lavender eyes...and who has eyes that color anyway?...that girl, that woman, that, that witch perhaps, saying there was a hurricane where no hurricane could logically be. Yet there it was, on the television, on the radio. And she was talking to her cat. Don't witches have animals...they call them something...familiars, right? I saw her talking to her cat in the car and then I saw her stop and talk to you, Waldo, before she got back into her car...just what did she say to you? Because after that, when I tried to head back home...you went berserk! You went nuts, just like before...just like before...oh, wait...that's right! That's when it all really started...back at home...back there when you made me get in the car, when you wouldn't let me turn, when you wanted to go north...you knew! Waldo, you knew! Didn't you?"