Cascadia

by H W Buzz Bernard

  Rob, gasping for breath, pulled himself erect. “Think again, dip shit,” he snapped, a childish response, but heartfelt.

  The first of the “surface” waves struck, hurling Rob into a picket fence surrounding his house. He righted himself, but a massive undulation, like a huge ocean swell, followed, surging through the ground and knocking him off his feet. The side of his house split with a resounding CRACK!

  Hector, wide-eyed, tumbled to the pavement beside Rob. “What the fuck?” he blurted. “You said this would happen yesterday.”

  “I lied.”

  Screams and yells from other nearby homes and condos filled the morning. Pedestrians, bewildered, knelt in place and watched pines and firs whip back and forth overhead in a frantic ballet. Fissures, like skeletal fingers, opened in the ground, zigzagging through streets and yards. Utility poles snapped and toppled. Brilliant flashes, blue and white explosions of light, arced from severed power lines. Broken electrical cables, like beheaded snakes, writhed on the ground, spitting angry sparks.

  The great earthen swells kept coming, tearing the town apart, knocking down flimsier structures, bending and warping others. Many wooden-frame homes managed to remain standing, but jiggled and jumped from their foundations. Some buildings appeared to sink into themselves, slumping into the ground until only their roofs remained visible—shingled mushroom caps marking the location of a collapsed structure. Liquefied soil, Rob knew.

  Accompanying the unfolding apocalypse, a death rattle echoed through the city, a deep rumbling as if a hundred freight trains were lumbering by simultaneously. In a discordant counterpoint, the wail and blare of dozens of car alarms filled the air.

  A propane tank, sheared of its moorings, tumbled along the street like an errant, fat football. It brushed past a sparking power line and erupted in a mini-fireball.

  Hector crawled along the sidewalk, found a fire hydrant and, using it as leverage, pulled himself upright. He took off in a zigzag jog-waddle toward the center of town.

  Rob struggled to his feet and, as the ground continued to heave, weaved along the sidewalk leading to his front door, determined to get to Tim and get him out.

  Cannon Beach

  AT FIRST, NOTHING more than a tiny shake buzzed through the forest. Zurry ceased barking. Jonathan grabbed his backpack and yanked out several more canvas bags. A hard jolt reverberated through the ground, a violent horizontal shake. Almost simultaneously, the floor of the forest heaved upward sending Jonathan sprawling. He glanced up. The trees surrounding him leaned sharply in one direction, then another, whiplashing to and fro. Shotgun-like detonations blasted through the woods as dozens of trees snapped or toppled. The sky darkened with flocks of bewildered, terrified birds soaring above the crown of the forest.

  Jonathan reached for Zurry and pulled him close. Together, they curled into a ball, nestling partially in the hole Jonathan had excavated. Jonathan could only hope and pray an eighty-ton Douglas fir wouldn’t come crashing down on them, crushing them into the earth along with their newfound treasure. Treasure, Jonathan realized, that teetered on the verge of becoming lost again, maybe this time forever.

  The ground continued to rise and fall and shake with such violence Jonathan doubted anything could be left standing. There seemed no end to the ferocity. Another heavy jolt shook loose a great chunk of earth, and Jonathan found himself, Zurry, and their incipient riches sliding down the side of Haystack Hill, a real-life magic carpet ride. Except this ride seemed bent on killing them.

  In the wake of the sliding slab, dozens of towering evergreens collapsed as the soil in which they had been rooted for decades disappeared. The din of falling and snapping trees echoed through the forest with the fury of a firefight in the jungles of Vietnam. Jonathan clung to Zurry with a tenacity born of that faraway conflict, a tenacity fueled by both love and fear.

  The landslide swept them across South Hemlock Street, the road paralleling the beach. At last, the sliding earth mushed to a halt. Jonathan ventured a cautious peak over the mounds of mud that surrounded them. A great gouge in the earth, littered with fallen trees, marked the path of the slide. Nearby, several homes had been bulldozed from their foundations and now appeared as nothing more than shattered stacks of debris. Elsewhere, nearly every house he could see had sustained some sort of damage ranging from minor to catastrophic. Only a pile of mud stood on the spot where he’d parked his car on South Hemlock.

  The shaking of the earth persisted, though it seemed to be relenting, becoming less savage. Jonathan tried to guess how long the peak of the violence had lasted. It seemed an eternity, but, forcing himself to be objective, probably had been less than three minutes, certainly more than one.

  Jonathan pushed himself up to his hands and knees. Zurry, looking frightened and confused, rose, too. Jonathan scrambled through the mud and dirt searching for the treasures he’d unearthed, hoping they’d ridden the slide with him and Zurry. To his amazement, probably because the chunk of earth that had swept them down had held together like a slab in an ice floe, he found much of the loot quickly, still intact, wrapped in canvas and coated in mud. His backpack had disappeared, however. He knocked the mud from the canvas bags he’d used as mats and went to work filling them with the treasure.

  People, some with go-bags, others with nothing, all dazed, began to appear in the streets. A few seemed to take charge, pointing and urging others to move toward higher ground. Several passed close enough to Jonathan to see him working in the detritus of the slide. “Better come on, buddy,” one called out, “a tsunami’s coming.”

  Jonathan acknowledged the alert and said he’d be along shortly. He wondered why the community’s warning sirens hadn’t sounded, the ones humorously famous by being tested monthly with the sound of mooing cows instead of wailing klaxons. The obvious answer for the lack of sirens: Cannon Beach had lost its electrical power.

  Jonathan worked at a furious pace, stuffing three gold ingots into each of the two bags, then piling in as much of the other plunder as he could: silk, the small leather pouches with pieces of silver, chunks of what he presumed to be centuries-old beeswax. He didn’t bother with the porcelain. Much of it was already cracked and broken, and what remained intact wouldn’t survive being lugged over debris-littered terrain.

  Finished, he stood and looked around. Vibrations continued to ripple through the ground. The foot traffic had disappeared. He knew he had to get away from where he was, gain elevation, find safety. Haystack Hill should do it. Maybe he could find a side street leading partway up the hill. He stooped to pick up the canvas bags, planning on toting one in each hand, ferrying them to safety.

  “Shit,” he said, as he attempted to hoist them. “Damn it all, Zurry, I can’t lift these suckers.”

  In his rush to fill the bags, he’d forgotten each would weigh over a hundred pounds. No longer a young man, when he could have picked them up like grocery sacks, he found himself forced to drag them. He glanced at the ocean. The tide had retreated, leaving Haystack Rock exposed to its base. From all he’d read and heard, he knew he had only a matter of minutes to find sanctuary from the tsunami.

  He struggled through the mud and debris, tugging the bags, each leaving a long drag mark like a carcass being pulled by a carnivore. His intent: to find a clear footpath or road leading up the flank of Haystack Hill. He didn’t know how far up he’d have to climb, but figured a hundred feet above the beach would do it.

  In short order, his leg muscles burned, his shoulders throbbed, his hands cramped. “Can’t do this, Zurry,” he panted. “Too frigging old.” Yet he knew he had to, knew that would be the only way he would ever rise from the economic backwater in which he existed. He drew a deep breath and went back to work. Drag, pause. Drag, pause. He looked again at the ocean. The tide had continued its slide toward the horizon, leaving hundreds of yards of exposed, naked sand. How much time did he have? Five minutes? Ten?
Certainly no more than that.

  “Please, sir!”

  A voice startled him. He released one of the bags and pivoted in place, searching for the source of the words.

  “Here. In here. Help.” There seemed a desperate edge to the plea.

  An elderly man, bent and wizened like a tree that had lived beyond its time, emerged from a partially crushed home. He waved a cane at Jonathan. “My wife. She’s in a wheelchair. I need help.”

  Jonathan let go of the other bag. “I’ll call 911,” he said.

  “No, I tried already. There’s no phone service.”

  Jonathan realized no one would show up anyhow. Debris, landslides, and fallen trees blocked the roads. He glanced at his bags, at the old man, at the ever-retreating ocean. If he ignored the pleas of the old man and fled with the treasure, who would know the difference? The tsunami would claim the couple. How many years could they have left anyhow? He and Zurry would be on Easy Street, and life would go on. Besides, who in the hell had ever given him a break? A black man in America.

  He reached down for the bags and resumed his slow-motion flight to safety. “I’ll send help,” he called out.

  “No, no. The ocean’s coming. Please.”

  Manzanita

  SHACK, MOMENTARILY bewildered, sat rooted to his booth in The Big Wave as the establishment emptied. A huge swell seemed to surge beneath the cafe, cracking walls and shattering windows. Shack bolted from his seat and followed the exodus.

  Outside, he struggled to remain standing as the ground rippled and bucked. Trees toppled. Power poles snapped. Buildings slumped.

  Several people had sought shelter adjacent to the exterior walls of a nearby lumber company. Shack joined them, though he doubted he would be any safer there than elsewhere. Cracks and fissures spider-webbed over the ground. Portions of the town subsided, as though swallowed by sinkholes. Gasps and soft cries issued from the small group Shack had huddled with. A young girl bawled uncontrollably.

  The brutal shaking seemed unending, destined to go on until nothing remained standing. It was as if the only thing humans counted on as solid, firm, and reliable—the Earth—had at last rebelled and decided to rid itself of everything anchored to it. A purge of civilization.

  Ever so slowly the convulsions relented, petering out to intermittent shudders . . . nothing left to destroy. Shack stepped into the street and took stock of his surroundings. What he saw reminded him of the war-shattered villages he’d seen in Bosnia and Herzegovina. Except here there were no bomb craters or burn marks, only “benign” destruction. Benign but total. It seemed no building in town had been untouched. While many homes appeared only lightly damaged, sagging or warping, several had pancaked. Others had collapsed into stacks of rubble.

  People emerged from where they’d sheltered, many walking determinedly up Laneda toward Highway 101, others signaling or calling for help. Several teams of two or three people, volunteer emergency responders Shack guessed, moved toward those who had gestured for help.

  He wondered about the people headed toward 101. He turned to one of the people he’d hunkered down with. “What’s going on?”

  The person, a young man with a muscle shirt and buzz cut, gave Shack a wide-eyed stare. “Tsunami, man. It’s coming.” He paused. “You didn’t know?”

  “I’m visiting from Atlanta.”

  “Okay, listen. Just stay here. Even if it’s a big tsunami, we should be safe this far up from the beach. Okay?”

  “Okay. How long before it hits? I thought you usually had hours’ warning before these things rolled in.”

  “That’s for like earthquakes in Alaska or someplace far away. This one happened just off the coast, I think. We’ve got maybe ten or twenty minutes before the tsunami hits.”

  “Jesus,” Shack muttered. He wondered if Alex was okay. “Are there designated gathering areas around here?” If there were, he could go in search of her, make certain she’d made it through the quake.

  “Assembly areas, you mean?”

  Shack shrugged. “I guess.”

  The man appeared to think for a moment, scratching at a scraggly growth of whiskers on his chin and staring into the distance. “Yeah, there’s one about a block north of here, just past the grocery store.” He pointed. “Then there’s another one on the golf course.” He pivoted and gestured south. “It’s a little farther.”

  “Thanks.” Shack decided to head to the closer one. That would be the assembly area nearest Alex’s house. A quick jog, maybe a minute, brought him to a place called Underhill Plaza, Center for Contemplative Arts. There wouldn’t be much contemplation going on today. Several hundred people milled about in the parking lot. They’d formed into small groups, talking loudly, gesticulating, looking apprehensively in the direction of the ocean.

  Many, mainly permanent residents Shack deduced, appeared to have what he had learned were their go-bags. He recalled the one in Alex’s office. But scores of others, probably visitors, carried nothing. They appeared more confused and stunned, a few even terrified, than did the locals.

  He made a quick recon trot through the lot, but didn’t spot Alex. He glanced at his watch. It had been just under five minutes since the severe shaking had ended. But just as a reminder, another shockwave, not quite so intense as the earlier ones, rolled through the town. The evacuees fell silent, let it pass, then resumed their conversations. A police officer arrived, gathered the crowd, and began speaking.

  Shack didn’t stick around. He headed toward the ocean, toward where he remembered Alex’s house being. Dead reckoning. At least he wouldn’t be arrested, not today, not with the Oregon coast in turmoil. He moved as quickly as he could, scrambling over downed trees, circumnavigating live wires, and jumping over clefts in the road. Destroyed and damaged homes lined both sides of the street. One billowed gray smoke, flames licking through a pile of rubble. The smell of burning wood and rent timber filled the salty air.

  The street appeared largely devoid of pedestrian traffic with most residents likely having already evacuated. But a few still hustled toward higher ground, toting their go-bags, or in some cases pulling wheeled duffels, a bit tricky given the condition of the streets.

  Shack reached Alex’s house, or at least what remained of it. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he said, the words coming in a soft gasp.

  The house had caved in. The roof sat where the second story had been; the second story, where the first floor had stood. The foundation of the building had disappeared, swallowed, at least partially, by the ground upon which it had been built. Shack guessed the violent shaking of the earth had caused the rocky, sandy soil to essentially become Jell-O.

  He dashed toward the collapsed structure, calling Alex’s name. No response. Maybe she got out. He worked his way toward the rear of the damaged home. He found an opening, a former second-story window, now just a bent and broken frame, and stuck his head through it. He called again.

  This time there came a barely audible response. “In here. Help.”

  “Alex?”

  “I’m stuck. Hurt. Please.” Her voice sounded louder now, but tinged with pain.

  “I’m coming.” Shack wormed his way through shattered beams and crushed drywall toward the sound of her voice. Water cascaded from a broken pipe. A skunky smell permeated the destruction signaling a propane gas leak . . . as if the impending tsunami weren’t enough to worry about.

  He slithered on his stomach, like an ungainly snake, down what apparently had been a hallway, a row of rafters brushing the back of his head. Enough daylight filtered in through the broken roof that he could pick his way through the debris without skewering himself on exposed nails or splintered wood.

  Once more he called Alex’s name.

  “Here,” she responded.

  He changed direction and squirmed to his left, toward a splintered door fr
ame. He forced his upper body through the opening. His heart sank. Alex lay on the canted floor about ten feet ahead of him, her hips and legs pinned beneath a fallen support beam.

  “Alex,” he said softly.

  She turned her head. “Shack,” she replied. Her tone seemed a strange amalgam of accusation, exasperation, and hope.

  “I’ll get you out.”

  “I can’t move.” She moaned. “My legs . . . crushed, I think. Hurt like hell.”

  He wriggled toward her, extended his hand, and stroked her cheek. “You’ll be okay.” He examined the beam. Heavy, solid. More than he could lift or move, especially in a confined space where he could get no leverage.

  He verged on panic. Checked his watch. Ten minutes since the heavy shaking had ended. Which meant what? Ten minutes to get Alex out? How in the hell could he do that? He needed help. He fumbled for his cell phone, yanked it from his pants pocket. NO SERVICE. “Shit.” He slammed it onto the floor. The only other option: go back outside, find help.

  “I’ll be back,” he said. “I need to find help.”

  She shook her head. “There’s no help. No time.” Her words came out in shaky, pain-riddled gasps.

  He already was squirming backward, down the hallway, toward the exit—the shattered window frame. Once out, he sprinted to the front of the home into the deserted street. The distant yowl of sirens, emergency vehicles, filled the morning, but there seemed nothing nearby.

  In desperation, he darted toward the beach, then back, looking for someone or something that could help. He spotted a pickup truck, wondered if it might have keys in the ignition. Perhaps he could use it to batter his way through the debris to Alex. Bad idea. With the gas leak, even if he could start the vehicle, a spark from the engine or friction from metal-on-wood could trigger a fire or explosion. Besides, just bulldozing through the wreckage might cause further collapse.