Rockfall

by William Allen

  Nobody had figures yet, not official ones, but California had suffered at least two earthquakes, leaving Los Angeles and San Francisco in shambles as parts of the state were now submerged in the Pacific Ocean. Further north, the Cascadia Subduction Zone gave a sympathetic shiver and the Space Needle was spread out in parts over downtown Seattle, while Portland saw half the city collapse in on itself. Up and down the coast, the story repeated itself as fault lines flexed and split. If a meteorite had struck, then it had done so with enough force to ring the planet’s crust like a bell.

  As I listened to the amateurs speculate on what this all meant, I decided the federal government either wanted to prevent the spread of panic into other, so far unaffected states, or the president feared appearing weak at this pivotal moment. My vote was for the second option.

  With tens of thousands already dead, and many millions about to die as the tsunami bore down on the battered survivors, no one in power wanted to admit they could do nothing to help. I didn’t blame FEMA or Homeland Security, or even the president, easy though it might be to do so. With the bridges down and the roadways buckled, the collapsed infrastructure conspired to prevent any large-scale evacuation from succeeding before the tsunami struck. Some might be able to self-extract, but by far the largest percentage of the population of three states was about to die.

  Thinking about that made me wonder about Hawaii, and then I realized the death toll amongst Americans would be even higher than I initially imagined. Hawaii would have been little better than a speedbump for this monster wave about to strike.

  Suddenly, I felt bitter bile rise up, and I barely made it to the toilet before my stomach struggled to turn itself inside out. I emptied everything, heaving for long minutes until I feared I might pass out from the force of the spasms. Laying my head against the cool porcelain, I closed my eyes and tried to push out the images manufactured by my imagination: the countless crushed bodies and the rows of shattered homes and businesses stretching to the horizon, and in the far distance, the looming black waves rising like the best Hollywood CGI effects.

  All those dead, and so many more to come, overwhelmed me. I felt the tears sting my eyes and roll heedlessly down my cheeks. I was not a crier. In fact, when I was married, one of my wife’s biggest complaints about our relationship was that I was emotionally closed off, as if that was a conscious choice I’d made at some point in my past. Maybe she was right, as I tried to dismiss the tears as a physiological reaction to the violent vomiting. The lies we tell ourselves are often the most potent, I realized with a sigh.

  I’d had friends in Los Angeles, old colleagues from my prior practice who’d migrated to better jurisdictions, as well as people I’d gotten to know from attending conferences back in the day. I also thought about Amanda, an old girlfriend, who last I knew was living in San Francisco. I prayed they survived, but in my heart, I knew they were gone. The best I could hope for was they had died quickly.

  How long I sat there in my misery, I had no clue. The bathroom stank of vomit and sweat, and for what seemed like an eternity, I couldn’t force myself to care. Time moved on though, and I felt my thigh muscles start to cramp from the awkward kneeling position.

  “Got to get moving,” I finally said out loud, then matching action to words, I slowly struggled to regain my feet. Cautiously regarding the splash area around the toilet, I pulled up the rug and headed for the utility room and the washing machine. Dumping the rug, I returned to the bathroom and pulled a used towel out of the hamper to mop up the tile floor. Then, I stripped off all my clothes, right down to the skin, before marching back to the washer and setting the machine up for washing the light load.

  The hot water was going full blast when I stepped into the shower, and I felt the heat soak into my skin as I lathered up with the body wash, rinsed, and washed my hair. What little bit of hair I retained, I kept cut short, so the whole process only took a few minutes. Then I gave myself thirty seconds of straight cold water, stifling a scream as I used the chill to clear my head.

  With one of the big bath towels wrapped around my waist, I padded next door in search of flesh attire. Going through the basket of clean clothes, I pulled on underwear, jeans, and a long-sleeved dress shirt. Knowing I was going to be wearing my Western-style boots again today, I pulled out the appropriate socks and stuck them in my pocket for the moment.

  Then, I went back to the bathroom, turned on the exhaust fan, and brushed my teeth for nearly half an hour to get the vile taste out of my mouth.

  With a final rinse and spit, wishing I could take care of all my messes so easily, I marched back to the office and pulled out a notepad to start taking down the news being rebroadcast over the amateur bands. By the time I heard the gate buzzer sound, I’d filled up five pages of notes and observations.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Roused by the sound of the buzzer, I looked at the spreadsheet and saved my work, then headed over to check the window. I had taken a few minutes to transfer my handwritten jumble into the organization of tables and columns, giving my work a more organized feel. The first glimmer of sunrise lightened the horizon, though I could tell from the clouds we were likely to get rain sometime today. Remembering the Weather Channel report from the evening before, I knew the day was supposed to be warm and sunny, and I felt a stab of concern. This was still early days, I thought, and awfully fast for the weather to start changing. Once the rain started, I was worried it would never stop.

  Drifting back into the kitchen, I topped off my mug of coffee while waiting for the little caravan to make its way up the drive and park outside. Only a few people had the code to access the gate, and a quick check of the camera confirmed the identities of my guests. We would be heading into town just as soon as my brother’s family got themselves situated, because now was the time to make those last-minute purchases.

  After going over my inventories, I’d decided to order another five hundred gallons of farm diesel to top off my five-thousand-gallon underground tank. I could have called in the order, but dealing with my distributor often worked better face-to-face, and I knew the price would soon be going up. All my models suggested fuel rationing would also become an issue, and I wanted to be able to use the tractors for as long as possible. I also wanted to add more oil and lubricating supplies for the same reason. Better to spend the money now and make sure my stocks were adequate right now before the price jump.

  Along with the fuel and such, I planned to hit the feed store in town for as much chicken feed and cattle supplements as I could afford. Cattle raised for beef, like my small Angus herd, needed certain minerals in their diet to reach their full growth in the shortest amount of time. I had a three-year supply on hand, but more is certainly better. I’d also pick up more wormer for the calves and a few more bags of wheat and oats from the organic supplier I’d talked Felix Wilson into ordering.

  From my research, I knew the wheat and oats I ordered this way might be more expensive, but as I’d explained to Wilson, why should I be introducing more pesticides into beef I planned on feeding to my family? This simple and truthful explanation won over the feed store owner, and he made it a point of stocking more of these ‘clean’ feeds for his more discriminating customers.

  That was only part of the story. The animals might love the treats, but I knew from experience these grains could easily be cleaned and made fit for human consumption. Well, the oats anyway, and I still needed to perfect my bread recipe for the ground flour I created.

  Making these last-minute purchases was not hoarding, at least not in my mind. I was not trying to corner the market on any item. Even with the unprecedented damage to the West Coast and the related infrastructure, we still had sufficient stocks in the supply chain to last for a time. How long depended on events and decisions beyond my control, but by acting now I hoped to insure the continued operation of my little farm.

  I knew we could produce food here, first for me and my family, and then for the neighbors, and some left over for the
community. Most folks in this part of Texas, even at this stage, would see the Asian earthquakes as just another disaster that happened to other people. Like Hurricane Katrina, or Superstorm Sandy, or any of a dozen weather-related catastrophes that devastated a region or area far from them.

  Only word was gradually getting out about the California quakes, though still no confirmation of the meteorite strike, and now we would see the mobilization of FEMA, and the Red Cross and other aid organizations, rushing to help the survivors. Except the scale was most likely beyond their understanding, like trying to fix Humpty Dumpty. I didn’t know the full extent of the damage to the West Coast. Despite their best efforts, the HAM radio operators were trading mainly in speculation, with little in the way of first-hand knowledge, but the reports painted a grim picture.

  In addition to the fuel, I’d also printed out a list of other useful farm supplies, mostly things in the ‘nice to have’ category, rather than the ‘must haves’ that had occupied my calculations over the first few years after getting the house completed and the framework of the farm in place. I’d worked hard to make this a place of refuge for my remaining family, after all, while trying to stay under the radar. No panic buying, today of all days, but all things that would improve our long-term survivability without drawing attention.

  Some members of the Preparedness movement liked to talk about their preps, either to friends or neighbors or even total strangers. They might brag about how much long-term storage food they had squirreled away, or the number of fancy M4s they had ready to defend their bunkers. As time went on and people figured out this was a genuine threat to not just our country but to our very existence, I wondered how those braggarts would deal with the masses of people showing up on their doorsteps looking for a handout. I liked to think I’d never fallen into that trap, because painting a target on my back was not something I wished.

  As I thought about these short-sighted individuals, I heard the dogs barking outside and knew the time for woolgathering was long gone. Stepping onto the porch and into my rubber boots, I exited the door to see the familiar sight of my brother’s full-sized pickup followed by the slightly smaller SUV, both pulling enclosed box trailers. They pulled into their regular parking spots and killed the engines just as the screen door slammed shut behind me.

  I’d barely taken a step before the back doors on the SUV popped open and a pair of panic-faced children, a boy of eleven and a girl I knew was slightly less than two years younger, raced across the yard and nearly bowled me over in their haste to get inside. No “Hi, Uncle Bryan” or any other acknowledgement from my niece and nephew before they disappeared inside.

  “What the heck?” I wondered aloud as I watched my sister-in-law climb out of the driver’s seat of the SUV and direct a pointed scowl at my brother Mike as he likewise exited the big truck. In the early morning light, the pair looked like stiff-limbed zombies as they slowly approached the house, but I could still see the glint of aggravation in Marta’s eyes as my sister-in-law continued in my direction.

  “Welcome, travelers,” I managed to call out in greeting. “What was that about with the kiddos? They didn’t even stop to give their dear old uncle grief.”

  “Your brother,” Marta ground out testily, “let the kids have sodas when we stopped for gas in Lufkin.”

  “And…” I prompted, which caused Marta to glance back at her shuffle-footed husband. Knowing Mike, I had an idea of what was coming, but I wanted Marta to spell it out for me.

  “And then we didn’t stop for a potty break all the way here,” Marta growled icily.

  “Honey, we really needed to stay on the road…” Mike began defensively.

  “Two hours, Michael,” Marta continued, her tone like a judge sentencing a repeat felon to a twenty-to-life stretch in Huntsville. “Your children whined and complained for nearly the whole drive. They wanted a bathroom break for almost the whole two hour drive. But did you stop? Did you even think about deviating from your precious timeline, even after I called you? Twice? Did you, Mister Hardin?”

  Despite the dark revelations of the dawning day, I couldn’t help but grin at Marta’s fiery diatribe. Mike, all six and a half feet and three hundred pounds, seemed to wilt before the blowtorch of his wife’s anger. Then, forcing himself to straighten, Mike tried to rally against the pressure.

  “But, honey, I was worried about you and the kids,” he began, but Marta held up one tiny hand in negation, cutting off her husband’s efforts.

  Martina O’Hara Hardin was an excellent mother, a loyal wife, and a dear friend, but she had the Irish in her, as Mike liked to joke, and she had a low tolerance for foolishness.

  “Hush, Michael Albert Hardin,” Marta interjected, refusing to letting the subject go, “We were already planning to come down this weekend, but you just went bonkers with this earthquake thing.”

  “Uh, Marta,” I said with a throat-clearing grunt. “This is bad. Really bad. I’ve been listening to the short wave and, uh, they had another series of earthquakes. Out west. California, Oregon, and Washington.”

  “I thought it was just China,” Marta blurted, then blushed, her redhead complexion making it obvious. “I mean, I didn’t think it would affect the United States that way.”

  I shrugged, lowering my head.

  “Don’t know the numbers yet, Marta, but expect the death toll in the hundreds of thousands. Probably into the millions. Nobody I spoke to has heard anything from Hawaii since shortly after this started.”

  Mike, hearing this, blanched under his tan.

  “So you think Bart was right?” he asked somberly.

  “You’re the one who talked to him, but yeah, I think so. Did you notice that windstorm coming down?”

  Mike nodded, then cut his eyes to the trailers. From the way they were squatting on their wheels, I knew my brother had overloaded them to get everything he wanted relocated here.

  Taking the hint, I cleared my throat again and gestured to the house.

  “Marta, why don’t you go ahead and get settled with the young guns while me and the knucklehead get those trailers put away and your bags unloaded.”

  “Why thank you, Bryan,” Marta replied, forcing a smile. “You are always the gentleman.”

  She was recovering from the grim news, albeit slowly. I wondered how many friends she had that were in danger, or already lost, and I hoped she could keep things together at least through the day. It was harsh, but we had too much yet to do today, and she could always fall apart tonight after the kids went to bed.

  “You’re welcome, Marta. You know you’re my favorite sister-in-law,” I shot back, trying to make that wan smile grow.

  “I’m your only sister-in-law,” she replied, “but I’ll take it. Get those bags and buckets unloaded and I’ll handle the morning chores. Then I’ll get started on breakfast. Going to be a long day.”

  Truer words had seldom been spoken. It had already been a long one, and the sun was still just peeking over the low-slung clouds. I consoled myself that at least half my family was here, but I was still on edge. Nikki and Patrick were on the way, but I couldn’t relax until they hit the front gate. Who was I kidding? After this catastrophe, I doubted I would be able to fully relax for a long, long time.

  “Well, old son, let’s hit it,” I said to Mike, and he responded with another of our father’s old sayings.

  “Yep, we’re burning daylight.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mike and I got the trailers unhitched with a speed born of long practice, and then we sorted through the two vehicles for their gear. With Mike leading the process, we gathered up the backpacks and plastic totes that made up the family’s evacuation kits. One bugout bag and one bailout bag per person, and the contents varied based on the person along with the color.

  Following my suggestion, Mike and Marta went with dark blue when they purchased the backpacks from various manufacturers. They all featured a hydration bladder and a multitude of exterior pockets but they looked like h
iking gear, not military surplus or prepper stock. No reason to draw attention, and since they carried out the function of carrying enough food, water, and minimal supplies to get someone through seventy-two hours of living out of the bag, we all called it good.

  The bailout bags were bigger; heavy-duty, waterproof canvas duffle bags. They were intended to stay in the vehicles until needed, and then go with the driver and passengers if they needed to abandon the vehicle for some reason. The bailout bags were a dark green and packed with some redundant supplies from the bugout bags, but more of it and a greater variety. Also, they included medical supplies, a small radio, and a ton of camping gear sufficient to set up a longer term camp. And more ammo, of course.

  Mike designed the loadouts for the various bags with Marta’s input, and I just nodded along. My brother and his wife were seriously hardcore preppers, after all. In comparison, I was more of a modern homesteader with paranoid tendencies. I had a bugout bag of my own, and Mike built me a bailout bag for my truck as a Christmas gift one year. In my mind though, if I had to hoof it cross-country, fleeing government troops, I figured I was screwed anyway.

  The totes, by comparison, were simply filled with the usual things my brother and his family brought to the farm when they figured to stay for a week or more. For the kids, these totes offered favorite games, DVDs, and the various odd and ends that made them feel more at home. Snivel gear Mike called it, which always made me laugh when he used the term. They had plenty of stuff stored in their rooms here, but Mike and Marta had a method to their plans.

  For the parents, in addition to more clothes and their own comfort items, the totes contained important documents like insurance policies, property deeds, and the titles to their vehicles, as well as medical records and extra medical supplies for Marta.