Shatto's Way

by Roy F. Chandler

  It was agreed that the American response was puny by expected standards, but at the time there were no news services to count score.

  Even with his powerful radio Toby Shatto could not discover what had happened. At the usual hour he tried Washington stations and found only static. Disgusted, he turned to the powerful New York station and again picked up nothing.

  Later a small station broadcasting from Texas came in reasonably clear and lasted through a day and night of frantic and garbled announcements.

  For a long time thereafter Toby sat twirling knobs trying for any signal. Despite all of the preparations and long discussions of the probability of nuclear war, the actuality of it numbed him.

  He tried to picture the destruction of the great cities but it was beyond imagining. Old film clips of the small atom bombing that had destroyed Hiroshima and Nagasaki during World War Two were familiar but those bombs were little more than detonators for the monsters now in use.

  Great questions rocked his mind causing him to pace with tension churning his innards and his mind fearful to face them. Who had died? How many survived? Was more to come? He had no answers and no way to find out.

  He peered through his view plate and wondered if the approaching air was unbreathable with radioactive fallout. Had they destroyed the atmosphere, and would spring find him one of only a few still living? There were moments when he barely eared.

  He faced his devils and regained calm. His Geiger counter barely ticked and dosimeters showed no significant radiation accumulation. Perry County was not automatically downwind from great nuclear explosions and might remain tenable. He could only watch and wait.

  He placed a counter at the top of an air shaft and checked it regularly. If the count rose he would have to button up. His thoughts turned often to his neighbors but for them he could only hope.

  +++

  When it arrived the radiation came in waves. Occasionally it reached serious levels, but the half-life was short. In March there were almost two weeks when radioactive dust settled thickly on melting snow and the beta count reached a nasty high. Survivors could wonder at its source. Meltdown of an abandoned nuclear power plant was as possible as atomized dust from an obliterated missile site or pulverized city.

  Radiation damage occurred spottily within groups struggling to live in foul cellars or thick-walled buildings. A few would sicken and die. More would recover or almost recover. At least they lived on. Damage to livers, spleens, and chromosomes were unmeasured. To live was all most could hope for.

  Few had radiation counters and fewer knew how or when to take cover. Of the multi-millions that died, how many could have been saved by preparation? No one could be bothered long with such idle speculation. Those who died were prayed over or abandoned. Some were eaten. Causes of death were unrecorded, and if a philosopher had bothered he might have claimed life had truly become survival of the luckiest.

  +++

  Chapter 14

  Hanna Roth Weigel wearily clomped from the cobbled road onto the equally rough but larger stoned quay. She carried a pair of wicker baskets fully laden with the last of the boat's perishables while behind her their regular dock boy tugged an awkward two wheel cart bearing canvas sailing bags of personal gear.

  Closing the apartment and equipping the boat had seemed interminable. In these desperately troubled times government employees still prospered, and safely cushioned and protected, they knew things would straighten out—given time.

  That businesses folded and other nations toppled was grist for serious head shaking at the endless cocktail rounds. It would all shake out; it always had. New governments formed and the old faces reappeared with new titles. They were all special and knew it. Hanna Weigel wasn't so sure. Only she sensed impending doom and Ken, as well as all of their friends, ridiculed her insistence that her IBM acquaintance, Toby Shatto, could be right.

  Still, Ken had heeded her fears enough to finally schedule their long-deferred sailing cruise. For two years they had reserved his leave time solely for the adventure of cruising their catamaran to the Gibraltar Straits. En route, free of the all pervading influence of other career diplomats, she intended to more strongly impress her feelings on her usually amenable husband.

  Despite increasing unease her heart rose to the challenge of such a lengthy sailing voyage. Their boat was an aging thirty-foot Iroquois catamaran, a model decades old but tested through countless ocean crossings. Easily handled by two, the catamaran offered swift, stable comfort. Her only weakness lay in the necessity of reducing sail before one really perceived the need. Caught overpowered, an Iroquois had been known to capsize. As the boat was rightable only with outside help, knowledgeable sailors took care to reef and furl well ahead of time.

  Tied securely to the bollarded end dock, with fore and aft spring lines holding her steady, the Iroquois appeared solid and anxious to face any ocean's wrath, but beyond sight of land such a craft shrank in apparent size and seemed a frail cockleshell in which to challenge the powers of the deep. The Weigels knew their boat, however, and had tested themselves and their craft until they were ready. Knowledge, skill, and a modicum of caution would make their voyage safe, if memorable.

  Having gained a little momentum down the long quay, Ehmad the dock boy had pulled abreast of Hanna just as light a dozen times brighter than the sun blasted them from behind and reflected a water glare so blinding that there was an instant of complete sight loss before eyes could squint and adjust.

  Hanna Roth Weigel recognized the nuclear sun as instinctively as she would have a normal rising. Hundreds of times during her growing years George Shatto had lectured them on the forthcoming atomic war and with Toby's recent letters and cable she almost expected it. Among the hundreds near the harbor only she took immediate action.

  One arm snatched Ehmad's slight form from between his coolie bars and they plunged together over the far side of the stone quay to land in a huddle in the low tide muck. Eyes tightly clenched she buried her head in Ehmad's smelly robe, protecting his own with her covering body.

  The terrible light continued for an extended moment penetrating every shadow and glaring through even the tightest squeezed eyelids. Furnace heat accompanied the hellish light, and even protected by the thickness of the ancient stones, Hanna felt her skin draw and shrivel.

  The bomb's blast rode over them in a smashing firestorm that sucked the very air along with it leaving a vacuum into which a counter hurricane blasted hurling everything back toward whence it came and finishing off anything left standing.

  For some minutes Hanna held the terrified boy close, waiting out the worst of the short lived gamma radiation before venturing a look around. How long had old George recommended? She couldn't remember but thought it only a few minutes.

  The reality of the nuclear explosion still escaped her. That they still lived seemed itself a miracle but about others she could not yet think. Peering cautiously they saw the expected mushroom cloud rising where the city had been. So close were they that the expanding gaseous masses seemed overhead and the immense column of rising dirt and debris almost within reach.

  The heat had dissipated almost as quickly as it had appeared. Close-by, poles were charred on the bomb side and the quay had been swept clean.

  The community that had crowded the water's edge lay flattened and afire, but from the ruins people were rising, some to wail in anguish while others screamed with assorted agonies and many fell to their knees in prayer. Most stood as Hanna did, in shock, unable for the moment to do more than look.

  Ken was gone! The knowledge slipped in, dwarfing even the horror around her. She had spoken with him by telephone only a few moments earlier and he had planned to leave his desk within the hour. He could not have gotten clear and no desperate hope rose within her that he had. Sick despair settled and her mind bogged and seemed unwilling to function.

  Tugging and sound roused her. She became aware of the boy, Ehmad, still clutching her hand while jabbering and pointin
g excitedly. Protected by the stone quay, the catamaran appeared to be still afloat. Disinterested and drowned by her loss, she allowed herself to be led to the boat. Her sailor's eye detected the severely rasped rub rail where the craft had been thrown violently against the dock with such force that the bumpers had been crushed flat. Fortunately wave action had been diverted or nuclear tides would have swamped the craft and inundated both she and the boy where they had crouched on the beach.

  She stood, not knowing what to do. The harbor was littered with foundering and overturned boats. A great ship was afire at a major dock and the busy warehouses that faced the ancient waterfront lay collapsed and unrecognizable as fire crackled almost merrily among the ruins. Above it all, the mighty cloud rose ever higher, now beginning to blow eastward as it reached the higher jet streams.

  She sank onto the rusted iron of one of the dock bollards vacantly fingering a nearly melted dock line, her mind recording that it would have to be replaced, while Ehmad, ever the practical survivor, ran to salvage the contents of the perishables bag that had gone over the quay with them.

  Time again escaped her, and she knew she waited dull and ineffective—just sitting when she should be doing something. The boy was back, clutching his salvage to his narrow chest and speaking excitedly in his broken English. Laboriously, she forced her attention, willing herself to act alive.

  Survivors gathered where the quay began. Some praying, most standing about appearing stunned and directionless. A robed and bearded figure exhorted them with violently flailing arms that waved heavenward as often as they pointed at her blond and Levi-clad figure. Even as she watched, the figures became a group and heads began turning her way.

  Ehmad's voice, fear filled and urgent, cleared her mind. "Missy, quickly. The holy man blames infidels for Allah's mighty blow. Quickly, you must sail before they come." She still sat only half believing and laughing foolishly within herself.

  Sail? With halyards melted? And to where . . . in a world gone totally mad? A rising clamor of voices jerked her into belated action. More figures joined the growing mob and other voices lashed their already shattered emotions.

  Suddenly fearful, she jumped into the boat's cockpit and examined the catamaran's condition. It floated level and, except for a mast that appeared sandblasted, there was little apparent damage. Halyards were badly melted and the roller furling jib had been ripped loose and was mostly gone. The mainsail cover had disappeared but the sail itself appeared undamaged. She guessed she could sail.

  She lowered the outboard and pulled out the choke.

  As usual she forgot to squeeze the gasoline pump, and her pulls on the starter cord were ineffective.

  Ehmad again called frantically from the dock and she saw the crowd beginning a slow surge toward her. She signaled the boy to cast off the lines and as he scurried from one to another she pumped gas and again hauled violently on the starting cord.

  This time the faithful Evinrude sputtered alive and quickly smoothed to its usual strong gurgle. The lines were free and the boat began to drift from the dock. The boy stood alone on the end quay appearing lost and frightened. She waved him aboard, and the light of hope that suffused his young face flushed strength and purpose into her own tattered spirit.

  Ehmad landed lightly on the deck, and holding a shroud for balance, pushed the Iroquois powerfully away from the dock. Fearful of stalling the cold engine, Hanna carefully eased the clutch into forward and pushed the tiller hard over to gain distance from the crowd now rushing along the quay.

  Their quarry escaping drove the mob to greater frenzy, and it rushed en masse toward the slowly moving sailboat. Gently Hanna advanced the throttle hearing the engine smooth and feeling the quick acceleration as she bore straight away.

  The mob rushed on, the aged holy man trampled and lying unmoving behind it. Many hurled stones, although only a few reached the boat to bounce harmlessly into the harbor. The crush approached the end dock and the leaders too late realized their danger. Some fell to the stones covering their heads with their arms and were trampled. Others were swept off the dock and into the harbor as wave after wave pressed in on top of them.

  Safely beyond reach, Hanna and the boy watched with little emotion. That dozens were drowning mattered as nothing beside the million that had died only minutes before. Senses already sledged numb could not respond to still another human tragedy. Hanna turned the boat toward the harbor entrance, her mind almost blank and a plan still unformed.

  ++

  Chapter 15

  There were times when Chop Clouser was sure that he hated Toby Shatto, and this was one of them. He stood alone in the rotted snow, hungry, worn down and needy.

  To approach the forbidding chill of the faceless cave door and beg admittance seemed almost too much.

  He had no just reason to feel resentful. In fairness, he should give thanks that Toby was there and that he was a friend. It was just that his whole life had been going over to Shatto's, taking Shatto directions, or trying to measure up to Shatto expectations. Then, just as real success was in his hand, the whole world had come apart. Comfortable pride in his farm had dissolved into a struggle just to exist, and the families that had sought his leadership now questioned his every decision. Through it all, who came out ahead? Toby Shatto of course.

  Shatto's way was best again. Just as it had been when he had stumbled back into the huddle and those black Shatto eyes nailed him like a pinned moth, calling the last play his exhausted body wanted to hear. And, he'd take the challenge, because Toby believed in him, or maybe because he thought Toby believed he had loafed a little the last time. He would hit those big linemen, driving beyond anything he dreamed he had, battling until the weight of bodies ground him motionless. Then, back to the huddle with his lungs sawing and his thighs trembling in exhaustion. Toby's eyes would catch him again, and the spark would jump, and he was willing to go again and again.

  He'd thought a lot about what made he and Toby different. Half again Toby's size and strength, Chop still never felt certain he could lick him. Toby Shatto had presence that threw people off stride. It could make a person unsure, like when you were meeting a celebrity. You knew they slapped the same mosquitoes, but you somehow got uncertain and doubtful.

  Somebody said Toby Shatto had been born wise and that seemed a decent explanation. What Toby did turned out good as though he had special information, maybe. Toby guessed right disconcertingly often. It didn't pay to bet against him and he'd been uncanny in multiple-choice examinations. It just seemed that while the rest struggled along in the muck, Toby strolled along on top. It really could get to a man.

  Toby recognized Chop's knock and hauled back the bolts with anticipation. He had been alone so long he felt about buried alive, and Chop Clouser was good to see anytime.

  That Clouser had survived the erratic radiation and the exceptional cold was itself exciting. Toby expected Chop would, but who could be sure? Maybe things were finally turning a little better.

  Chop rumbled in like a medium tank, bringing a draft of crisp, clean air. He ripped off his pile cap and enveloped Toby's hand within his own massive fist as though they had been separated for years. Well, in miseries it might be equal to years at that. By all measures the winter had proven a horror. Hopefully Chop had news beyond the little Toby had gleaned from the desolate airways.

  Chop said, "My God, Tob. This place smells like a bear's den."

  Toby sniffed, grinning with the pleasure of just speaking to another, "Smells good to me, Chop. You get used to it, I guess."

  Chop flung his heavy coat after his cap and headed for the glow of Toby's stove. "Ain't summer out there yet, Toby. My God, it's hotter in here than I've felt all winter." He backed his rump close to the stove letting the heat sink in.

  Toby was slow in responding. Without his coat, Chop looked as old as his own father. Meat had fallen from his bones leaving him haggard with pouchy skin hanging like a starving elephant. The winter hadn't dealt kindly with the Clous
ers.

  "Good God, Chop, you're as lean as a buzzard. What in hell happened over to your place?"

  Chop's head shook mournfully, "I hate to tell it, Toby; fair makes me sick. Making it short, three died and a half dozen are down sick. Our shelter leaked I guess.

  We used the old root cellar, you'll remember, and after awhile we figured out those going down were closest to the door. We got more ground piled there, and at least the dying stopped.

  '"Course, some others that kept traveling around without knowing about the radiation died. Lots of them maybe—can't get a true count yet."

  He held up his meter. "That's why I'm here really. Batteries are gone. I'm hoping you can spare us some more."

  Toby waved away any question, "Of course, Chop. Damn, I should have given you spares when I brought the meter. God, how dumb can you get!"

  "Oh that ain't it, Toby. Hell, this meter probably kept us alive. It damned sure saved the stock. Without it, they'd of been outside eating and drinking. We saved a number of them and for that we're grateful."

  He squinched an eye at Toby. "You know the deer are dead, Toby? Woods is full of dead ones and I ain't seen a recent track."

  Toby groaned aloud, "Oh God, Chop. I'd hoped it wasn't that bad." He brightened a little, "My guess is that some will get through though. Maybe not right here but somewhere. Radiation blows about like dead leaves, deep in some places, none in others. Still be a question whether or not they got sterilized though."

  He shook off the ugly thought and smacked his hands together. "Ok, Chop, a chance to celebrate. What'll you have for lunch? Name it and I'll provide it."

  His pleasure soured as he belatedly realized the salt he must be spreading on his friend's wounds.

  "Oh hell, Chop. I'm sorry! Honest to God, I wasn't rubbing it in. I'm just damned glad to see you." He sat down, defeated by his thoughtlessness.