Cataclysm

by Tim Washburn

  CHAPTER 73

  Near the Lamar River and Northeast Entrance Road, Yellowstone National Park

  With very little usable wood remaining to burn, the group stirs awake, shivering. Even though it’s summer, the nighttime temps at Yellowstone often drop into the low thirties. Rachael, Matt, Jess, and the kids had slept in the snow coach while Walt and Tucker, with rags tied around their faces, braved the elements and snuggled together under three light jackets. Walt and Tucker rotated watch, keeping an eye on the distant horizon for pyroclastic flows. But there were none, suggesting the third eruption had been a fairly small event.

  Everyone piles out of the coach, and Rachael begins rubbing her arms, trying to generate a little heat. The ash fall is heavier with three vents now open, and it rains down like heavy snowfall. The scent of sulfur is heavy on the morning breeze. People scatter in opposite directions to take care of their morning business, rags wrapped around their faces, like a gang of outlaws.

  Tucker sorts through the remaining snacks. The pickings are slim—several bags of chips and a half-dozen candy bars. Tucker rips open a bag of Funyuns and grabs a handful before handing the bag to Rachael. She turns up her nose and continues rubbing her arms.

  Tucker gobbles one of the crunchy rings. “Canteens are empty. We need water. Are you sure there are no natural springs close around here?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. But I guess we could look around a bit.”

  Walt grabs his pistol from the front hatch of the snow coach. “I’m going to look for some game. Doubt there’s much but I might scare up a deer along the creek.”

  Tucker glances around at the scarred landscape. “Want us to find wood for a fire?”

  “Not worth the effort, yet. Let’s see if I can find anything first.” Walt surveys the ash-filled sky. “I won’t be gone long. It’s probably best not to hang around here too much longer.” Walt pulls his T-shirt up over his lower face and plunges through the ash, hugging the riverbank in search of prey.

  Tucker leans down, scoops up a handful of ash, and rubs it through his fingers. “The ash particles are larger. Maybe three or four millimeters in size, and there’s a lot of glass.”

  Rachael steps over and runs a finger through the ash in his palm. “Meaning what?”

  Tucker drops the ash, the lighter fragments floating away on the wind. “Meaning we’re too damn close.” He wipes his palm against his pant leg as he focuses on the sky. “We need to blow off looking for water and game and get the hell out of here.”

  “We need water. And the only spring I know about is at the lake.”

  “I don’t think there’s time to hike all the way to the lake. We need to take the path of least resistance to put some distance behind us.”

  Rachael winces as she glances toward the wreckage scattered haphazardly across the tarmac. “The road?”

  “It’s our only option at this point. For water we’ll have to make do with one of these smaller creeks.”

  “We’re tempting dysentery fate.”

  Matt comes limping back from the river with Jess tucked under his arm for support.

  Tucker nods toward his brother. “There’s no way Matt’s going to hike up and down a bunch of hills. I’ll settle for dysentery if it means staying alive.” He shouts toward Walt and waves him back.

  “Uncle Tucker, I’m hungry,” Maddie says, her voice muffled by the makeshift mask.

  “We’ve got candy bars or chips, baby girl.”

  “Ugh! Again?”

  Mason grabs a Snickers bar and carefully folds back the wrapper. “I haven’t had this much candy since Halloween.”

  Maddie picks a bag of pretzels and stomps away. Tucker grabs the canteens and Rachael follows him down to a small creek. But all they find after digging through the ash is a small trickle of water filled with sediment.

  Rachael scoops up a handful and sniffs it. “I think we’re better off with the river. At least that’s been filtered through some gravel.”

  They leave the creek and trudge down to the river, where they find standing pools of water unfit to drink. They backtrack, cross the road, and find a rippled section of river flowing over a gravel bed.

  Rachael repeats her sniff test. “I think this is the best we’re going to find.”

  Tucker squats down and lifts a palmful of water to his lips. “It tastes okay.” They fill the canteens and return to the snow coach. Tucker passes the water around and everyone takes a long drink.

  Walt arrives, huffing from exertion. “This ash is ten times harder to walk through than snow.”

  Tucker hands him a canteen. “It’s much denser and heavier than snow. I was hoping it would pack down some, but it is what it is. Let’s roll.”

  Tucker returns to the river to refill the canteens and catches up to the group as they lumber forward through the ash, a winding road of death and destruction spread before them as far as the eye can see.

  CHAPTER 74

  Cheyenne Regional Airport

  J. John Jackson steps out of the Escalade and affixes the cowboy hat on his now-pulsing head. He had knocked back too much bourbon at the hotel bar after signing the paperwork and wiring $2 million to Flight Time Flight Services. However, this is not the first time J.J. has ever had a hangover. Not by a long shot. He reaches back into the SUV, grabs a big bottle of water, and guzzles the contents. J.J. thinks briefly of a cold beer in a hair-of-the-dog attempt to ease the throbbing in his brain, but talks himself out of it. Too much to do today.

  He pushes through the door of Flight Time and takes a moment to wipe the ash from his boots. The counter is unoccupied, so J.J. steps over to a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY and walks through. Inside is a large hangar space where two helicopters, each a mirror image of the other, are parked. J.J. wonders which one of them belongs to him. One has the upper cowling pulled away from the rotor section of the aircraft. A wrench hits the floor, followed by a string of curse words. J.J. heads that way, walking around the front of the closest bird to see Joey standing on a ladder. “Joey, I thought we were flyin’ today?”

  “We’ll be ready to go in a few, Mr. Jackson. Just need to finish installing this filter. Take a look at your new helicopter while I finish up. She’s a 1991 Bell 206L-3 Longranger, powered by an Allison—”

  J.J. holds up a hand. “Joey, I wouldn’t know the difference between a 206-whatever and another fuckin’ helicopter. All I give a damn about is whether she can fly.”

  “She’ll fly, Mr. Jackson. I found the filtration kits we bought several years ago during a particularly bad fire season. I’m putting one in and stowing the other one, in case we need to change them out.”

  J.J. pushes his hat back and massages his forehead. “Sounds good, Joey. If you’ll wrestle up your account numbers, I’ll get somebody to wire your money.”

  Joey reattaches the cowling and fastens it in place before climbing down the ladder. He digs out his wallet, pulls out a blank check, and hands it across, a large grease thumbprint stuck dead center. “I’ll wash up and pull her out of the hangar. Should be ready to go whenever you’re ready.”

  “Joey, you seem pretty fuckin’ happy to be takin’ your last flight.”

  “We caught two breaks I wasn’t expecting, Mr. Jackson—the filters and a northerly breeze. That’ll hopefully push the ash farther south.”

  “So I reckon I don’t need to cancel my proctologist’s appointment next week?”

  Joey cackles. “I hope you make that appointment, Mr. Jackson.”

  “Joey, the name’s J.J. We don’t need none of that mister bullshit.” He removes a cell phone from his pocket. “Soon as I finish getting your money sent, I’ll be ready to go. You find a place to get some more gas?”

  “We’ll top off at Riverton going and coming. I also have a refuel spot up at Red Lodge if we need it.”

  “Sounds like you’re the man with the plan, Joey.” J.J. pushes a speed dial button on his phone and meanders around the hangar. The call is answered on the second rin
g. “Bud, you got a pencil handy?”

  “I do, boss. Whatcha need?”

  “I need you to wire some more cash.” J.J. reads off the account numbers and waits for Bud to read them back.

  “How much do I need to wire?” Bud asks.

  “A hundred and sixty grand. But I want another hundred grand ready to go if I live to call you later in the day.”

  “Damn, J.J., you’re spendin’ money faster than shit through a goose. What’s this about you livin’ through the day? Somethin’ you need to tell me about what you’re up to?”

  “Just goin’ for a little whirlybird ride, Bud. Catch you later.” J.J. disconnects the call and slides the phone back into his pocket.

  Joey, back from washing up, slides a small dolly beneath the helicopter and jacks it up, much like a pallet jack would work. Once the skids clear the ground, he hooks the dolly to a golf cart and wheels the chopper outside, parking it on the tarmac. He lowers the helicopter and returns the dolly and golf cart to the hangar. “I think we’re ready to go, Mr. . . . J.J.”

  J.J.’s stomach is suddenly queasy, and not from last night’s bourbon. “You sure you can fly this thing?”

  “Like I told you, I’m not licensed, but I can fly her. Thought you weren’t worried about dying?”

  J.J. dry swallows. “I’m not. I just get a little torqued up, bein’ in the air and all.”

  “You’ll do fine. Climb into that left cockpit seat. View’s better up front.”

  J.J. opens the door and climbs in. His hat hits the ceiling, pushing it down around his ears. He takes it off and tosses it into the back as Joey climbs in.

  Joey hands across a headset. “Put your seat belt on and plug that in. That way we’ll be able to talk to one another.”

  J.J. claps the headset over his ears as Joey clicks a slew of switches before firing up the chopper.

  After a few moments of idling, J.J. shouts out a question. “Aren’t we takin’ off?”

  Joey reaches over, plugs in J.J.’s headset, and demonstrates how to trigger the microphone.

  J.J. depresses the button. “How come we’re not movin’?”

  “Need to wait for the pressures and temps to come up. Just sit back and relax, J.J. We’ll be in the air shortly.”

  J.J. scowls as the engine revs and the rotor picks up speed. Joey slowly lifts the collective, and the helicopter lifts off the ground. He eases the cyclic forward and works the pedals to adjust for the crosswind. The helicopter moves forward, and Joey increases the RPMs, lifting the helicopter higher in the sky.

  After an hour and a half of relatively easy flying, the ash grows heavier as they approach Riverton. With no planes in the air, Joey doesn’t bother with a radio call. He guides the chopper close to the refueling station and touches down, the rotor wash sending up plumes of ash. J.J. climbs from the cockpit to stretch his legs while Joey refuels.

  “J.J., walk over to the hangar and see if a ladder’s handy. I’d like to check the filters before we take off again.”

  J.J. nods and walks toward the hangar, sending up large sprays of ash with each step of his long stride. He finds a ladder and lugs it back to the helicopter. Joey finishes the refueling and climbs up to check the filters.

  “Filters are pretty nasty. These things picked up a ton of ash as we were landing. Something we need to keep an eye on.”

  “Want to change out the filters?” J.J. asks.

  “No, we only have the one extra set with a long way to go. If you’ll hand me my tool kit in the back, I’ll take these out and shake off as much ash as I can.”

  “Maybe someone here has extra filters,” J.J. says hopefully.

  Joey shakes his head. “I called around last night. There’s not another set of filters within a three-state area. Most sane people just park their helicopters if flight conditions are terrible.”

  “You callin’ us crazy?”

  Joey scans the horizon. “Yeah. We’re crazy. And the conditions are going to get worse. We’re still over two hundred miles from the volcano.” Joey climbs down and smacks the filters against the tarmac.

  “How close is too close?” J.J. asks, arching his bushy eyebrows.

  Joey looks up from his task. “Where exactly are these oil rigs of yours?”

  J.J. scrapes the heel of his boot through the ash. “They run from Thermopolis to Cody and on up toward the Crow Reservation.”

  Joey stands up. “You are crazy. Cody’s about forty miles from the park. When you said Wind River Basin, I just assumed you were talking about much farther east, out toward the Bighorn National Forest.”

  “Is Cody in the fuckin’ Wind River Basin or not?”

  “Yes, on the fringes. But I didn’t think anyone was drilling around there.”

  “There is now—me.” He claps Joey on the shoulder. “Let’s get this fucker in the air. We’re burnin’ daylight.”

  They take to the air again and spend the next two hours surveying the oil fields. As they approach one of the wells near Cody, they discover a huge ball of flame shooting from the wellhead. The charred remains of an overturned wireline truck lie about forty feet away.

  Joey triggers his mic. “What happened?”

  “Looks like we had a well blowout. That bitch’ll burn until I can get someone in here to cap it. That’s a shitload of money being pissed away.”

  “Did the people escape?”

  “Don’t know. I sure as hell hope so. Had one of my best geologists sittin’ on that well.”

  CHAPTER 75

  Along Grand Loop Road, Yellowstone National Park

  Ralph Barlow eases the pickup to a stop at the junction of Grand Loop Road and the Northeast Entrance Road. He climbs from the cab and grabs a cold beer before wrapping a red paisley handkerchief around the lower portion of his face. Ralph slips the beer under the mask and takes a long draw of the the ice-cold beer. “That’s about the best beer I’ve ever tasted,” he mumbles before draining the rest of the can and tossing it into the truck bed.

  After a loud burp, Ralph begins reading the tracks. Two sets of tracks run along the road toward Mount Washburn, but the most concerning issue is that the tracks are now nearly obscured by the falling ash. A sudden surge of adrenaline floods his system as he walks a circle around the intersection. From the tracks it appears the snow coach has been to Mount Washburn and already returned. The fact that the coach had cut deeper ruts on the return trip suggests Tucker and Rachael had found Tucker’s family or were hauling a very large moose. Ralph votes family and blows out a sigh of relief as he hustles back to the pickup.

  His sense of relief fades when he hits the snarl of charred automobiles. His anger quickly turns to deep remorse when he realizes the vehicles once contained people. The weight of the tragedy descends, driving him deeper into his seat as tears work their way down the creases and valleys of his weathered face.

  After another mile the remorse transitions back to anger. He berates himself for not doing more. His mind runs through a list of things he could have done better. The fact that they didn’t evacuate earlier is the one element that drills into his brain. He worries that thought over for the next few miles, trying to come up with a realistic answer for not doing so. In the end, no one, not the so-called experts or the scientists in charge of all the instruments, thought an eruption of the caldera likely. The fact that the volcano hadn’t erupted in over 640,000 years had skewed everyone’s perception. With odds of a million to one against an eruption, the caldera is winning the bet. The answer provides little solace to those who had died a horrible death. Ralph wipes his eyes and tries to flip his mind back to task.

  As he approaches the blocked bridge, he spots the snow coach parked off the side of the road. He gooses the gas to close the distance, hoping to see friendly faces. But nothing stirs but the ash when he brakes to a stop. Ralph jumps from the cab and strides over to the coach to find it empty. He hurries to read the quickly diminishing footprints. There are dozens of prints in a variety of sizes, and all
radiate away from the vehicle in a willy-nilly mishmash of compacted ash. Ralph walks a wide circle around the coach. Footprints lead to the river and back, and a heavy-footed set of prints follows the bank of the river toward the south, but none of the prints indicates a definitive direction.

  Ralph hustles back to the road and finds two sets of just-visible footprints leading down to the other side of the river. “Surely they wouldn’t split up,” he mumbles as he continues to search. He stops searching, takes a breath, and spends a moment refocusing. He studies the landscape, deciding the road is the only route that makes sense. But where are the footprints? A north breeze is blowing, whipping the ash around the ground. A sudden thought pops into his mind. There is no ash on the hoods or tops of the burned vehicles. He rolls that thought around for a moment or two, then weaves his way through the tangle of cars. Ralph releases the held breath when, on the other side of the bridge, he spots an assortment of prints that leads away into the distance.

  After walking both sides of the bridge in search of a crossing, Ralph hurries back to the truck. He switches out air filters and hops into the cab. The truck is equipped with a brush guard mounted to the front bumper, and Ralph noses into one of the wrecks to push it out of the way. He shoots down the bank on the north side of the bridge and splashes across the shallower section of the river, using the brush guard to create a new opening on the other side. Once back on the road, he picks up speed.

  Two miles farther on, he spots several figures through the haze. He blasts the horn and hits the gas, pulling up next to the group. With their faces covered and their heads coated with ash, it’s hard to tell if Tucker and Rachael are in the group. He throws the truck in park and jumps from the cab, wading around the front of the truck. Three of the group break from the pack and turn toward him. For a moment Ralph wonders if he has made a terrible mistake. But his fear dissipates when they pull the masks from their faces and swamp Ralph in a group hug.