The Wind From Nowhere

by J. G. Ballard

  “You’re later than expected, Commander,” a burly red-faced major in reception greeted Lanyon. “I gather it’s really blowing up outside.”

  He led Lanyon into a side office where there were coffee and hot rolls on a table. Lanyon pulled off his leather jacket and helped himself to coffee, then sat down thankfully on a teak chest resting on a low table against the wall. Putting out his cigarette, the major hurriedly pushed across a canvas chair.

  “Sorry, Commander, but perhaps you’d better sit on this. Don’t want to show any disrespect to the general, do we?”

  Lanyon pulled himself to his feet. “What are you talking about?” he asked, puzzled. “Which general?”

  The major smiled. “Van Damm.” He pointed to the teak box. “You were sitting on him.”

  Lanyon put down his coffee. “Do you mean that Van Damm’s dead?” When the major nodded he stared down at the coffin, shaking his head slowly. It was ringed with heavy steel tape, and there was a Graves Commission seal franked with a Paris movement order.

  The major began to laugh noiselessly to himself, looking Lanyon’s wind-torn uniform up and down and shaking his head in dry amusement. Lanyon waited for him to finish.

  “Now tell me what’s really inside,” he asked. “An atom bomb, or somebody’s favorite spaniel?”

  Still chuckling, the major took out a silver hip flask, plucked a paper cup from the water dispenser in the corner and passed them across the table to Lanyon.

  “No, it’s Van Damm all right. It may seem a hell of a time to take him home, but he’s booked into Arlington Cemetery and if be doesn’t go now there’s a good chance he never will. There just won’t be room.”

  Lanyon helped himself to a shot of whiskey. “So he was dead after the crash?”

  “He was dead before the crash. Van Damm was killed two weeks ago in a car smash in Spain. He was on some private visit to Franco, which they had hushed up for political reasons, in case it hurt his campaign. His body was being shipped home on the plane. Nobody survived the crack-up at Orly. The Connie went straight into the deck on her back before she made 300 feet. Flipped right over like a paper dart. They fished out Van Damm’s bits and pieces and decided to mail ‘em collect to Nice.” He replaced the flask, then went over to the coffin and patted it gently. “Well, have a quiet trip back to the States, General. You’re the only one who will.”

  Lanyon spent the night at the Hotel Europe, a big three-story pile about five blocks back from the beach. The high clustering buildings in the hotel district made the streets just negotiable. Most of the hoteliers, with the aid of local shopkeepers, had built narrow roofed corridors of sandbags against the walls of the streets, and a maze of these dingy tunnels crisscrossed the city. A good number of bars and bistros were still open, and at the Hotel Europe 40 or 50 people sat up most of the night in the bar, listening to the news reports and speculating about possible escape routes.

  Lanyon gathered that the wind showed no signs yet of abating; its rate of increase was still a steady 5mph a day, by the latest estimates 117. After the initial period of inaction at last some organized attempt to preserve order was being made. Governments were requisitioning coal mines and deep shelters, stockpiling food and medical supplies. News reports were conflicting, but apparently most of Europe and America were still little more than inconvenienced, while South America, Africa and the East had suffered complete dislocation, and the first signs of famine and epidemic were revealing themselves.

  They set off back for Genoa at seven the next morning, the teak coffin, sealed into a canvas shroud, stowed in the cabin under the mattress. Goldman had mouthed some bitter cynicism and he obviously regarded Lanyon as the representative of the worst perfidies of the officer caste. Lanyon himself felt mildly disgusted with Hamilton for wasting the Terrapin’s potential, but the admiral might himself have been ignorant of Van Damm’s death.

  Five miles from Monte Carlo they passed through a small village, nestling below a cliff topped by big white hotels. The road narrowed, high walls on either side, and suddenly Goldman swore and braked the carrier. Lanyon peered into the periscope and saw two windswept figures in oilskins standing in the center of the roadway, waving their arms in wide circles. When they neared the people Lanyon noticed a stack of pastel suitcases on the pavement, the gaudy airline stickers clearly visible.

  “Hold it,” Lanyon snapped at Goldman. “They’re Americans. Must have been stranded here.”

  They stopped the carrier and the orderlies unbolted the rear doors. Leaning out, Lanyon waved the two figures over, caught a glimpse of faces at the window of a house behind them.

  One of the men climbed up onto the tail board and sat panting in long painful gasps.

  “Thanks a million for stopping,” he said, touching Lanyon’s shoulder gratefully. “We’d just about given up.” He was about forty-five, a slimly-built man with graying hair and small neat features.

  “How many of you are there?” Lanyon asked, pulling the door shut to shield them from the savage gusts that drove into the carrier and swept out every vestige of warmth.

  “Just four. My name’s Charlesby, U.S. consul at Menton. There’s Wilson, my deputy, his wife, and a girl from NBC. We were supposed to be covering the evacuation of American nationals to Paris, but everything’s gone to hell. Our car cracked up, and we’ve been stuck here for a couple of days.”

  The other man in oilskins ran across the road to the carrier, shielding a red-haired woman in white raincoat and plastic bootees. They pulled her up into the carrier, helped her back onto the mattress. Lanyon and the orderly jumped down into the road and ran over to the suitcases, just as the other woman, wearing a tightly belted blue coat, her blonde hair swirling around her head, ran out of the house and stepped nimbly across the pavement in long strides to the carrier. She tried to pick up one of the suitcases, but Lanyon pulled it from her hands, put his arm around her shoulders and steered her over to the open doors.

  As the carrier got under way again Lanyon climbed forward and squatted down behind his seat. The two women were sitting back on the mattress, while Charlesby and Wilson crouched among the suitcases.

  “We’re making for Genoa,” Lanyon told Charlesby. “Where are you people supposed to be heading for?”

  Charlesby unbuttoned his oilskin.

  “Paris, theoretically, or in an emergency the air force base near Toulon. I take it this rates as an emergency, but how that gets us to Toulon I haven’t worked out yet.”

  “I’d take you back to the hospital at Nice,” Lanyon said, “but we can’t spare the time. I’m afraid you’ll have to ride back to Genoa with us and then see if you can pick up something going the other way.” He watched Wilson, a young man of about twenty-five, warming the chapped hands of his wife, a pale tired-looking girl who looked a few years younger. “O.K., there?” Lanyon asked. When Wilson nodded, he turned to the girl in the blue coat sitting on the mattress beside him.

  “What about you? Genoa suit you?”

  “Uh-huh. Thanks a lot, Commander.” She pinned back her hair, looking Lanyon up and down. Her face was strong and full-lipped, with wide intelligent eyes that examined the commander with frank interest.

  “Charlesby said you were with NBC. News reporter?”

  She nodded, took a cigarette from the pack Lanyon offered her. As the carrier swung around a corner she rolled slightly against him, and Lanyon felt warm strong shoulders through her tightly fitting coat.

  She steadied herself with one hand on his arm, blew out a long straight stream of blue smoke.

  “Patricia Olsen,” she introduced herself. “On the Paris bureau. Came down here last week to get some shots for the folks back home of Monte Carlo being flattened.” She tapped the tape recorder next to her with one finger. “All I’ve managed to get on this thing is the sound of my own screaming.”

  Lanyon laughed and climbed into his seat. The carrier slowed down to a crawl and Goldman stabbed a finger at the periscope. They were moving str
aight into the wind, up a long narrow slope. Twenty yards ahead of them, caught by its bumpers between the walls of two houses, was a long black Buick, swung up onto one side by the force of the wind. Slowly it worked itself free, then rolled onto its back and slithered down the street toward them. Goldman accelerated sharply, and the Buick locked for a moment against the heavy nose armor, then lifted sharply into the air and careened over the sandbagged hood with a tremendous clatter, rolling off the roof of the carrier. For a moment the periscope was darkened. Then it cleared and they all turned to watch through the rear-door grilles as the Buick, its body holed and dented, slithered down the street, demolishing a low wall, from which clouds of dust took off in the air like supercharged steam.

  “Bad driver,” Patricia Olsen commented dryly.

  They quieted, listening to the holocaust hammering past outside. They were traveling due east, straight into the wind face, and the turbulence around the rear doors exploded periodically with sharp pressure booms. The streets outside thudded with the sounds of falling masonry, the eerie piercing scream of tinplate and galvanized iron being stripped from rooftops, the explosive shatter of snapping glass.

  For hours they sat bunched together silently, swaying in unison with the motion of the carrier, trying to massage a little warmth into themselves.

  “How long do you think most of the buildings can stand up to this wind?” Patricia Olsen asked Lanyon quietly.

  Lanyon shrugged. “If they’re well built, they’re probably OK up to about 150mph. After that it looks as if we’ll really have to hold onto our hats. How are you getting back to Paris? Most heavy transport has been requisitioned by the military.”

  “I don’t know whether I want to get back to Paris. Too many old chimneypots there.”

  Lanyon glanced at his watch. It was 4:05. They had crossed the border and with luck would make Genoa in a couple of hours. Soon he’d be safely inside the Terrapin and away from this madness. Oddly, though, however little he ultimately cared about the people hiding in basements in the towns through which they had passed, he found himself wondering what would happen to the girl next to him. He listened to the strong low sounds of her breathing; she looked highly adaptable and resourceful.

  “Commander!” Goldman shouted, almost standing up at the wheel, his eyes fixed on the periscope. They were about ten miles from Genoa, moving down an exposed section of road that curved toward the dam at Sestra, two miles away. The broad hump of the concrete barrier was obscured by the spray whipped up from the deep torrent of water swirling down the road 50 yards away from them. Just ahead it left the roadway and spilled down into the valley, carrying with it a foam-flecked jetsam of smashed sheds and chicken coops.

  “The dam’s gone, Commander!” Goldman bellowed. Frantically he reversed the engine, sent the carrier backing obliquely across the road. Lanyon pressed his eyes to the periscope, then wrenched at Goldman’s shoulder. High waves were cascading down into the valley, but as far as he could see the dam’s outline was intact.

  “Goldman, snap out of it! The dam’s still O.K.!” He pounded Goldman’s shoulder. “Get the engine forward again! The water’s only a couple of feet deep.”

  Carried by the wind, the carrier was reversing rapidly. Before Goldman could pull himself together the off-side rear wheels left the road, and the vehicle swung around sharply and rolled over onto its side.

  With a savage jolt the occupants were hurled off balance against the roof. Lanyon pulled himself away from Goldman, struggled painfully through the dim light past Patricia Olsen, who was rubbing her knees. Charlesby and the Wilsons were getting to their feet among the mêlée of suitcases and medical cartons. One of the orderlies opened the doors and kicked them outward. A whirl of dust and gravel whipped off the surface of the road and flashed past them in a white blur, while ten yards away to their left a deep stream of icy water surged past down the valley, spreading out across the vineyards.

  The carrier lay immovably on its side, wheels spinning in the wind. Lanyon looked around for Goldman, trying to decide whether to clap the man under arrest, then decided the gesture would prove nothing.

  Half a mile away was a group of low two-story brick buildings, grouped in a loose rectangle, a concrete tower standing above them on the far side. The remains of a rough fence ringed the compound, and there appeared to be a motor pool between two of the buildings, a collection of trucks huddled together against the storm.

  “Looks like a barracks,” Lanyon decided. The intervening country consisted of narrow farm strips divided by heavy hedges, ten-foothigh bocage that would provide them with enough shelter to reach the buildings.

  Charlesby wearily pulled himself over to the doorway. “There’s a good chance nothing will come along here for hours,” Lanyon told him. “The road over the dam is probably closed by now and my guess is that they’ll have radioed across to the units on this side to take another route further inland. We could be stranded here for days.” He pointed to the buildings in the distance. “Just about our only hope is to head for the barracks over there.”

  Lanyon leading, followed by Charlesby and the Wilsons, with Patricia Olsen and then Goldman and the two orderlies bringing up the rear, they dived out of the carrier and plunged down the slope toward the hedge running parallel to the road 50 yards away.

  As he left the carrier the wind caught Lanyon and gunned him along, tossing him helplessly across the lumpy soil. Over his shoulder he caught a glimpse of the others stepping tentatively out of the carrier and being whirled away on the slipstream. Charlesby stumbled and fell onto his knees, and then was swept upright again, his legs racing madly. The Wilsons, arm in arm, were being buffeted from left to right like drunken circus clowns. Abruptly Lanyon lost his own footing, fell heavily onto his knees and was tossed sideways like a child rolling down a hill.

  Regaining his balance, he reached the hedge, crawled along to a narrow gateway and slipped through it into the slightly sheltered lee of the hedge. Away in the distance Goldman was bowed down with his back to the wind, being carried along the verge of the roadway. Charlesby, oilskin ripped off his back and billowing over his head, only attached by the tapes under his armpits, followed ten yards behind.

  Zigzagging along the hedges in the general direction of the barracks, Lanyon kept what lookout he could for the others. Once or twice he thought he saw one of them moving along an adjacent field, but he was unable to cross the intervening open ground.

  He reached the boundary of the barracks within half an hour, and lay in a ditch on the inner side of the fence—nothing more now than a series of tilting support posts—scanning the open surface of the compound. The barracks was the airmen’s quarters of a small airfield. Beyond the buildings were the control tower and two or three wide concrete runways extending off into the haze. Between the barracks he could see the upright steel skeletons of two large hangars. In the nearer hangar was the tail section of a Dakota that had been tethered by a steel hawser. It slammed and swiveled in the driving wind, its identification numerals still visible.

  He was lying waiting in the ditch for any of the others to appear, when he noticed something rolling toward the boundary line about 50 yards away. It moved in sudden jerks, occasionally throwing up a narrow white limb that Lanyon recognized as an arm. Within a few seconds it reached the boundary line, crossed it and then rolled down into the ditch, a lumpy bundle of gray-and-black rags. Lanyon crawled along to it.

  When he was a few feet away he recognized the tattered strips of Charlesby’s oilskin, the shreds of his gray suit.

  He reached Charlesby and straightened him out, then massaged his pallid face, heavily bruised and barely recognizable after being dragged across the rough farmland. For a few fruitless moments Lanyon pumped the man’s lungs, trying to inject some movement into him. Finally he gave up, wrapped Charlesby’s head in the skirt of the oilskin, and lashed it around his neck with his trouser belt. Soon the wind would let up and all the field rats and scavengers sheltering in the
ir burrows would come out, searching a barren world for food. It might be some while before the body was found, and better the scavengers should start on Charlesby’s hands than on his face.

  As he backed away he saw someone approaching him along the ditch.

  “Commander Lanyon!”

  It was Patricia Olsen. She still wore the belted blue coat, scratched and muddied, and her blonde hair trailed around her head in a tangled mat.

  He hurried along to her, took her arm and steadied her into a sitting position. She rolled her head weakly against his shoulder and glanced at the body.

  “Charlesby?” When Lanyon nodded, she closed her eyes. “Poor devil. Where are the others?”

  “You’re the only one I’ve seen.” Lanyon peered up at the sky. He felt exhausted and muscle weary, and he was sure that the wind was stronger than when they left the carrier an hour earlier. The air was full of large pieces of grit that flicked and stung at their faces like angry insects.

  “We’d better get inside the barracks. Are you strong enough to make it?”

  She nodded weakly. After a moment’s rest they darted forward across the clipped turf to the building 50 yards away. Lanyon held her arm, and she was almost flung out of his grasp, but together they lurched over to the far end of the barracks and pulled themselves around the corner into the doorway.

  At the rear of the entrance hall a stairway led below into the basement. They hurried down, tripping over the litter-strewn steps, and with luck found a more or less airtight room off the central corridor.

  Patricia sat down weakly on an old bedstead and brushed her hair wearily off her face, drawing her coat over her long legs. Lanyon checked the window. Below ground level, it looked out onto the narrow well which ringed the building, but its shutters still held, though enough light filtered through for him to see around the room. There were a couple of bunks, two empty wall cupboards, and underfoot a collection of old movie magazines, discarded webbing and cigarette butts. Lanyon sat down on the bed next to her.