MOONFALL
By Roger E. Greider
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Copyright 2011 Roger E. Greider
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MOONFALL
Chapter 1
Jim, the night watchman glanced at his wrist. “Good morning Mr. Stevens. You're at the observatory early this morning. Did you forget to set your clocks forward?”
Greg Stevens was the only student janitor called ‘Mister’ by the university employees. He was five years older than the average student and aware of everything happening on campus. He smiled and acknowledged the greeting. “No. I wanted to get here before class to look at the data Dr. Evans gathered from observations of Jumbo last night.”
“Hey, isn't that your meteor−the one you found?”
“Yes, but I shouldn't take the credit. I discovered it by accident while I was working on Dr. Evens’ project. He's helping me track it now.”
“The way you work for that man like a slave is one of the first things I noticed when I came to work here last year. I never saw anything like it. And I think you know more about astronomy than he does.”
“I wish! I owe him a lot. I almost dropped out after Helen died. But being around him, watching him with his students and listening to his counseling, I decided I wanted to spend the rest of my life teaching. Because of him, I got my graduate assistantship and the school let me keep my custodial job too. He got me to stop wasting money on flying lessons, which kept me from losing my house.”
“You can give him the credit, if you want to, but you kept that house because of your hard work. It sure is a nice house.”
“Thanks. My wife picked it out. She died before you were hired. I think she married me only because I made the down payment with the money I had saved for college. She was in one of Dr. Evans' classes and introduced us. Before I knew it, I was his assistant, and the work we're doing together now will help me write the dissertation for my Doctorate.”
In the office, Greg finished his calculations, using the new data. As he concentrated, massaging his forehead, his eyes widened and he whispered to himself, “My God!” His hands dropped to the desk and he went over the figures again. “That rogue has to be from outer space and it's rocketing into the solar system.” After checking one more time, he reached for the phone.
Dialing, he shifted back and forth in his chair, tapping his fingernails on the desk, making the sound of a galloping horse until Evans answered. “Dr. Evans, I apologize for calling so early, but I've just looked at last night's data and I'm sure you'll want to see what I've concluded. I hope you'll tell me I'm wrong.”
“I know, and I don’t think you are, Greg. I didn't go to sleep until an hour or two ago, worrying about it. All my life I've heard talk about the end of the World, never dreaming I'd live to see it. But it looks like I will if that big rock comes as close as I think. Even if it doesn't hit us we're in trouble. I can't believe I didn't see it until you pointed it out to me. How big do you think it is?”
“I don't want to guess, but it's scary big. It could be the size of Texas, and its velocity is unbelievable. I agree with you; just coming close could spell disaster.”
“Greg, I'd like for you to download my model of its path onto your computer and I'll keep you up to date on my observations so you can work on it at home. As soon as I get to the lab, I'll put in secret calls to the other observatories and get some engineers involved. But it's your baby. We should change its name to 'Stevens, 1.' What are your thoughts on the possibility of altering its path?”
“With our present technology, I doubt we can do that. But I'm no engineer. As to the name, I think 'Jumbo' is fine. I don't want my name on something that's going to extinguish life on Earth. It looks like the only thing that would save us is for it to hit another large body first, but I could be wrong. I'm sure there are a lot of scientists that are smarter than I am.”
“I don't know about that, but I don't think there are any other large bodies in its path. Don't talk about this to anyone yet. Let's finish today in our usual routine and get together tomorrow to decide what to do.”
Greg went to his physics class, took a few notes and feigned attention, but his mind was on the basement room under the garage of his house. It was half full of old furniture and things that came from Helen's family. The house had been constructed during the nineteen sixties when the Country was going through an atomic bomb scare, and the room was built as a bomb shelter.
At home, that afternoon, Greg went down the dusty, littered stairwell and looked critically at the room. If the giant meteor didn't come too close to Earth it might be a safe place to hole up. With enough time it could be filled with survival supplies and as many books from the university library as he could get.
Bill and Carrie Collins, down the street, also had one of the bomb shelters. Maybe they would want to follow his example. He decided to tell Bill about it when the time was right. Greg also thought of Dr. Evans and of Wanda, the girl he had been dating lately. She was a cousin of Carrie that worked in the university library. But the shelter could store only a finite amount of survival provisions−he decided to think about it later.
Wanda usually finished her library shift at eleven pm, and they frequently arranged to meet as he arrived on Campus to clean the laboratories. He didn't see her that night, but he let himself in with his master key and looked through the shelves of advanced mathematics, science and engineering.
The next day he told Dr. Evans about Bill's shelter and of his own plans, and he was disappointed in Evans’ response. “I'm afraid you'll be wasting your time.”
“You may be right, but I wish you would come with me. We could rob the library and put the big encyclopedia and a few hundred science and engineering technology books in the shelter. I've been going with the assistant librarian; maybe she'll help us. The books might be as valuable as food and water.”
“No, Greg. I'm truly sorry. I've no interest in adventure, or in saving the world. But I wish you good luck.” He laughed. “I'd say we have about one and a half chances in a million, so I'll be wasting my time too, collecting data that will be destroyed with everything else on Earth. I'll throw a big going away party just before the disaster. You can bring Helen's sister, Mable. And bring your friends, Bill and Carrie and your librarian partner in crime.”
“I'm sorry too, Dr. Evans. Thanks for the invitation to your party. I don't think Mable would come. I don't know about Wanda and the others, but I'm going to be very busy.”
“OK, my friend. I'll continue to send you the updates on Jumbo's path. And I think your idea of raiding the Library is good. Don't forget medical books. I can help you get all you want. Being a big wheel around here gives me certain advantages. Get Wanda to help box them up and stack them on the loading dock at the back of the building. I'll have them delivered to your house.”
Chapter 2
The book heist went smoothly and Greg arranged his library neatly in the shelter. The next morning he answered the phone. He had been lying awake, staring at the ceiling, trying to collect his thoughts. "Greg, have you been watching the news?"
“Just got up Bill. What's happening?”
“Turn on your television. There's a big meteor headed for us. You need to get that guy you're working for at school to look at it with his telescope.”
Greg wasn't surprised that the story had leaked, but he didn't know how much to tell Bill. “Yes, he knows about it. It looks like it might be a problem.”
“Yeah? Do you think so? The news report said there might be some storms, but they don't expect them to cause any real damage. Maybe we should put some stuff in our storm shelters. What do you think?”
“Sounds like a good Idea. I'll let you know what's happening at the observatory. It'll be a while before Jumbo gets close to us. But it wouldn't hurt to stock up on some emergency provisions.”
“That's what I mean. Oh yeah, when Carrie heard the news, she said it would be all right with her if you shared your shelter with her cousin, Wanda. You know−since you've been dating and get along so well. She might want to stay with us, but ours is so small, you know; it would be awful crowded. Wanda and I dated before I met Carrie. And Carrie's kind of−you know. If there are storms, they probably won't last long. What do you think?”
Preoccupied with his own knowledge of the extreme danger, Greg forced himself to keep his breathing slow and even. He wanted to say, “In a few days we'll probably all be dead anyway, so it doesn't matter who stays where.” But trying to avoid upsetting Bill, he said, “Sure. If you think she might want to stay here, I'll ask her.”
“Hey, that's great. Hold the phone for a minute. Carrie's talking to me−she wants to thank you. If you're not busy tomorrow, come over for supper. Wanda will be here too.”
At supper, Wanda accepted Greg's offer, and the days slid by with the four of them scrounging supplies. They continued to watch the news and, except for Greg, who was periodically receiving Evans' downloads of Jumbo's path, they were comforted by the headlines: “Meteor's Path To Be Changed,” “World Scientists Working To Avoid Disaster;” and as the monster neared the Solar System: “Big Rock Will Miss Planets.”
Then, after hearing the report, “Only Manageable Tides Expected,” Bill said, “Wow, is that good news or is that good news. It looks like we lucked out.”
“We might be OK,” Greg said, “but I'm still receiving updates on the meteor, and I think we should continue our preparations.”
While they gathered supplies, Jumbo hurtled closer under the watchful eyes of the World’s observatories. And days before its arrival, it was close enough to be seen without a telescope. Bill and Carrie were watching it with Greg as it disappeared behind the moon, apparently missing it. But when it reappeared it had separated into several pieces, which were speeding off into space, taking a large portion of the moon with them in a heavy trail of dust.
Bill looked at it in glee. “There it goes, and it's breakin’ up. Our worries are over.” He laughed. “I guess we was over-doin’ it with gettin’ all them provisions. Hey; let's have a party.”
“We'd better wait a while before partying,” Greg said. “That shattered meteor and all the dust means it smashed into the back side of the moon pretty hard. And they were traveling in opposite directions with a fantastic closing speed. The moon's orbit will probably change, and we'll have to see how that's going to affect us.”
Over the next few days, with growing concern, the four of them watched the Moon as it started coming apart. “I could be wrong,” Greg said, “but from the angle of impact, the moon's speed has probably decreased, which means it might fall into a degenerating orbit. And those chunks are crumbling into smaller pieces in a dust cloud.”
Wanda covered her face. “I don't want to hear about it.”
Bill said, “Don’t take it wrong, Greg, but I’d rather believe the reports on the news. Most scientists say the debris will settle into a stable elliptical orbit. A degeneratin’ orbit is too horrible to contemplate.”
“Stop,” Wanda said, moving toward the door, crying. “I don't want to hear any more.”
Greg tried to keep her from leaving, holding her arm. But Carrie said, “Let her go, Greg. She'll be all right.”
After Wanda left, Carrie continued, “She'll be back. There's nothing we can do. I've known her all of her life; she's just naturally high-strung.”
Bill said, “I’m glad she ain’t staying in our shelter, Carrie. If the storms them guys is talking about is bad, I don't think I could stand her Whinin’.”
Carrie glared at him, raising her voice. “She's my cousin. Stop criticizing her!”
Bill yelled, “I ain't criticizin’ her, I was just…”
Greg put his hand up, laughing. “Whoa; fighting each other will only make matters worse. Let’s cool down. The media reports might be right. It's possible we'll be perfectly safe. I’ll apologize to Wanda for being so pessimistic.”
Carrie said, “But the moon is so big. If it falls on us, won't it break us up like the meteor broke it−or bury us hundreds of miles deep? The shelters would be worthless.”
“What you say, Carrie, sounds right,” Greg said, “but there are things you haven't taken into account: The remaining pieces of the moon are traveling at only a small fraction of the meteor's speed. They’ll skid into the other side of the Earth in the same direction we’re rotating and will spread out over only part of the surface. Many of them will burn up it the atmosphere. And the damage around us might not be bad.”
When Wanda returned, Carrie gave her a hug and reassured her, “Greg thinks we have a good chance of getting through this thing OK.”
Greg said, “According to Evans' data, the moon won’t get here for twenty days. And my computations indicated most of the debris will pepper the other side of the earth, leaving the area around us relatively undamaged. There will probably some damage to the atmosphere, and the Earth's crust will have to expand a bit to accommodate the greater mass. But if we continue to gather provisions, we can hope to wait it out underground.”
Chapter 3
On the last day, as the aggregate of the fractured moon raced overhead, Greg hurried over to Bill's house for a final talk before buttoning up. The sun was hidden but the day was bright with the fiery streaks of moon dust. When he returned, Wanda had left, leaving him a note. “Dear Greg, forgive me. I know I'd have gone crazy and made life unbearable for you.”
He flipped his cell on and dialed, amazed that it still functioned. “Bill, have you seen Wanda?”
“We seen her yesterday. She's scared to go down into a shelter. Carrie and me try to convince her she would be safer, but she says she'd feel better staying up in the fresh air, pretendin’ it ain't gonna to happen. Me, I'd rather get into my cellar first and then pretend it ain’t gonna happen.”
“It's going to happen, Bill, and she's gone. She left a note.”
“I don't understand her. I guess she really meant it. She told Carrie she couldn't stand the thought of being buried in a concrete room and talked about killing herself, but we didn't think she was serious.” After a long pause, Bill continued. “Hell, Greg−there ain’t nothing any of us can do about it−I'm sorry.”
Greg knew Bill was right but couldn't think of anything appropriate to say that wouldn’t offend Carrie. He finally said, “Maybe she'll be better off than us. Tell Carrie I'm sorry too. And it's time for the two of you to button up. That's what I'm doing. I'll let you go now and see you when it's over. We'll share our survival provisions.”
“You bet, Greg. See ya later.”
Flipping the phone off, Greg swallowed and took a deep breath, knowing it was going to be a lot worse than he had let on. He looked around at Helen's things−things he was probably seeing for the last time, trying to think of anything he had forgotten; but he couldn't concentrate. He wondered if Bill had seen through his brave words.
He was still holding the phone when it rang. A harsh voice followed his greeting.
“Gregory?” Mable knew he didn't like to be called “Gregory,” and he was sure she did it maliciously. She repeated, “Gregory, Dr. Wiemer has called a meeting, and you need to come down to the church right away.”
The way she could turn a seemingly caring message into verbal abuse by the tone of her voice always amazed him. “Dr. Wiemer says people like you cause these disasters. Oh yes, I know about you. Helen told me how you wanted to make love all the time. But Dr. Wiemer says that we have to forgive you.” Greg rolled his eyes upward and to the side, leaning his head back and shaking it slowly in a motion of futility. Mable had always been eager to listen to Helen's exaggerated stories. Actually Helen tolerated his amorous attention only on rare occasions.
“Thanks for the invitation, Mable, but I have plans for the night.”
“Don’t expect your girl-friend, Wanda. She’s here and she told me what you were going to do. Dr. Wiemer says to have faith, and he will take care of us. You get down to this church right now. It’s so embarrassing, Gregory, to have a brother-in-law like you.”
As she continued, Greg listened until the moon debris was beginning to disappear over the horizon before he interrupted her, calmly. “Mable, I hope Wiemer succeeds in helping everyone, but I'll have to turn down the invitation. You enjoy the meeting, and if we're both still here tomorrow, we can talk about it then. Bye now.”
Going outside, he watched and listened to the scene. Streaks of fire were racing across the sky and above them were millions of small pieces of the fractured moon. Some of them were glowing, tumbling crazily, charging across the sky like a buffalo herd. In the mixture of sounds, he could almost hear the rumble of their hooves and their bellowing cries.
Descending the steps into the shelter, Greg hoped the concrete structure would hold together. He left the door ajar and tried to relax on the recliner, the only piece of furniture he had taken from the house. These moments of physical comfort on Earth would be his last, he thought. He knew portions of the Earth's surface would be flooded with hot magma. And even if he were not buried or consumed in fire, he would have to survive violent storms.
As the minutes passed, he began to think he had been wrong. If the moon debris didn't start hitting soon, it would keep racing around the globe toward him, and his shelter would wind up beneath a mountain. He waited, listening to a roaring crescendo.
Had the computer model been wrong and would he soon know what it was like to die? He looked at the west wall, knowing it would fold down over him and squash him like a bug. It would only take a second. Lying there, with the earsplitting noise demanding all of his attention, he resigned himself to his fate, and he was surprised to find that he was relaxed and unafraid.
The light flickered and went out, and things started to shake violently. Jumping up, he reached out, grabbed the handle, and slammed the door shut, bolting it. Then with the flashlight in his hand he held onto the top of a heavy oxygen cylinder. He hugged it to steady himself and struggled to hold on.
As the shaking became worse, both he and the cylinder were thrown about in the dark as though they were in a washing machine. With everything crashing about, the noise was deafening. Was moon debris landing on and near the house? Then a sharper pain joined the excruciating assault on his eardrums.
Later−he didn't know how much later, he heard a man crying out in agony and he awoke listening to his own voice. He hurt all over, especially his head. The jumbled pile of supplies pressed in on him from all sides. He wondered how long he would be able to stand it. The minutes seemed like hours. For a long time he thought his head was beneath a heavy stack of containers, but then he discovered he could move it a little. He moaned as he struggled, getting one hand free to soothe the aching knot on his temple.
He gradually worked himself out of the pile, realizing the noise and shaking had settled down to distant rumblings and minor vibrations. As the minutes went by, the blackness in front of his face seemed to be pressing into the back of his eyes. He had never experienced the total absence of light for more than a few seconds, and it played on his mind. Was not seeing his hand in front of his face the result of the darkness, or because the blows on his head had robbed him of his sight? Fighting panic, he freed the other arm and gently felt his eyelids and the sore places on his face, discovering there was nothing on top of him.
Examining his bones he couldn't identify any particular brake but it felt like there were multiple fractures. He almost hyperventilated as he crawled around in pain, searching for the flashlight he had dropped. When he found it, its glow made him light headed with joy. Feeling its comfort, he made a note to always know where it was and to save the batteries as much as he could. He located his medical supplies, doctored his abrasions and took some analgesic tablets.
With his head throbbing, he attempted to stand, but lost his balance, screaming as he fell against a pile of boxes. He rested there for a few minutes and surveyed the mess. While he waited, the pain began to subside, and he noticed the room was tilted.
The corner next to the door had been elevated, and a disturbing thought came to him. What if debris had collected in the stairwell, holding the door closed? Or worse, what if a mountain were on top of the shelter? He decided that doing nothing but lying there thinking about it would not help.
Enduring the pain of movement, he unbolted the door, positioned himself and began to push. It didn't budge. So he used the lever that had been installed to free the door if it jammed, and he jumped back in surprise as water sprayed in.
Stunned, he stopped prying and the spray stopped. Was the shelter under water? If it were, it couldn't be very deep, because the top of the air vent wasn't under water−or was it? He turned the handle. No fresh air came in. His back stiffened as he fought a wave of panic.
He had never thought about how the vent mechanism worked; but the water was evidently there and something had sealed it off. Had the water come from a lake? An ocean? He concluded that the collision had caused more change in Earth's topography than he had expected.
Fighting off fear, his thoughts came quickly, at random. He tasted the water−no salt−it might be a rerouted river, or an overturned water table. The water was probably still moving. He might pry the door open and escape to the surface. How long before opening the door? The bottles of oxygen were now a very important possession among his survival gear.
The room trembled off and on, and he thought he could hear the water moving, along with the other sounds. Where was the rumbling sound coming from? The frequency of the vent drips increased and the hissing coming from door seal continued. There were also scary creaking and grinding sounds.
Turning on the flashlight again, he trained it on the low corner of the room. The bottoms of the boxes were wet. A small stream was running to the low spot from the faulty door.
He Calmed down and breathed deeply. Thinking he might be wasting his effort, he soon cleared a spot at the low corner. Estimating the volume of water that had collected and the rate at which it was rising, he calculated the time it would take it to reach the top of the door. He decided he could float some of his supplies to the surface if he was not too deep.
Positioning a can to catch the dripping water, he opened the valve slightly on an oxygen cylinder. Its sound joined the other sounds of his tomb. He stretched out on what was left of the recliner and tried to relax, deciding there was nothing to do but wait.
His thoughts turned to Helen. After her death, he had become a loner. But wanting to be alone in a city, where friends and associates were available was different than being alone because other people didn't exist. He thought of the students he had as a graduate assistant, being sure that few, if any, had survived. He would miss them.
Beginning each semester, they were only names and faces, but soon the girls were all beautiful and the boys were all handsome. The first time it happened he couldn't believe it. It had become a large part of his motivation to continue teaching. His classes, along with the rest of his past life, were now only a string of memories−memories that were lulling him to sleep.
He dreamed he was in a classroom. The students were doing an experiment. The buffalo had been in the rain and stood dripping all over the floor. It had fallen through the ceiling and the students left because the water ruined the test papers. Greg was upset. He had known about the buffalo, but the administration told him it would be somewhere else this morning.
Awaking with a start, he fumbled for his flashlight. The water was higher than he had anticipated. Had he slept longer than he thought; or was the water coming in faster? He shined the light on the ceiling, making sure that the hole in the ceiling was only in his dream.
His emotional roller coaster again carried him toward the edge of panic and he turned off the oxygen to listen. He could hear distant rumblings, and the other sounds from above. But he could no longer hear the water squirting through the door seal or dripping into the can. He swung the light around to the can, noting it was full but there was no water coming from the vent.
Looking down, he could see the water had been higher on the boxes. The level was dropping! The tension that had been building gave way to a feeling of elation, and when he turned the handle he laughed at the stream of warm air from the surface. It smelled of smoke and had a little sulfur odor to it but it was wonderful.
He again pushed on the door and it cracked open. A storm raged above. Seeing swirling gusts racing through the aperture, he closed it, but not before some fouled air had blown in. Until that time, the filter in the vent had evidently been keeping it out.
How long would it be until the air outside was clean? Ancient volcano eruptions came to mind. They had blocked out the Sun for years, causing mass extinctions. He could feel the pain creeping into his body again and he took another analgesic tablet.
Chapter 4
The minutes went by, turning into hours, then days and weeks. Greg's bruises healed, and his waking hours were filled with exercising, and writing in his log. The log was more than a ledger. He also wrote down his thoughts about random destruction. He was certain that in places where the Earth's surface wasn't buried, destruction would occur in unpredictable patterns. Some areas would be totally destroyed, and others might survive with little damage.
He felt like kicking himself, remembering his small, battery-operated radio with a directional antenna. He had purchased it when he was taking flying lessons. It and been for emergency use in case he was lost and had to make a forced landing.
Of course, the probability of a radio station surviving was practically zero. Even if a commercial station had survived, receiving its low frequency signal from any distance would not be possible because the ozone layer would be gone. So he decided there was no reason for him to feel foolish for not saving the radio.
He kept a twenty-four hour schedule, unsure whether his watch battery would last until he could see the sun again. A more important question−how long would his provisions last? He went through periods of thinking the storms were about over and times when he believed they wouldn't end in his lifetime. But gradually the gusts calmed down, and he could step out into the stairwell for short periods of time. The air was getting cleaner, and a steady wind was blowing.
When he finally decided to venture out, it was nighttime, and it had been raining. He was surprised and elated by being able to see the stars. He wasn't expecting that to happen for months, maybe years. Climbing the stairs, he picked his way up through the muddy debris and looked out over the top.
The starlight was not bright enough for him to judge distances, and nothing was recognizable. But he could see that the house was gone, as were the neighboring houses. There were no yards, no street, and a heavy smell of sulfur came and went on the wind. But he was alive. He could breathe the air and he still had provisions.
After cleaning out the stairwell in the pre-dawn light, he disposed of his trash bags of waste, laughing at his decision to take them to the back yard to bury them. When the Sun appeared, he looked toward the southwest and was disappointed. The water tower that had been there was gone. His watch read twelve, so he reset it at six, thinking that might be about right.
Looking eastward, he could see nothing where Bill's house had been, and he was eager to get down there to see if they were all right. The Sun seemed to be rising faster than it should. In only a few minutes it was well up into the sky, which was no longer as clear as it had been before daybreak. He could look right into it without squinting.
Standing on what used to be the garage floor, he studied the landscape. The berm that had been next to his lot was gone. It was meant to protect the residential section from the noise of the super highway, which ran north and south just west of his house. He had lamented the fact that the house was constantly exposed to the wind, wishing it sat lower on the hill. He now realized how fortunate he been to not get that wish.
The highway was now buried beneath a huge solidified river of lava, which had evidently flowed from the new range of mountains several miles to the north as they were thrusting through the surface. The jagged peaks reached high in the sky and ran east and west as far as he could see. The lava looked cool now. He noted that the edge of the flow was only a few feet below the end of the drainpipe from the shelter. If the lava flow had been a little larger it would have covered the drainpipe, and his shelter would be flooded.
Greg’s thoughts again turned to Bill and Carrie. Wanting to know if they had come out yet, he decided it would be safe to run down and investigate. It wasn't far, and he would see if they needed anything.
The going was easy, and he had no difficulty locating their driveway and the garage floor. But his heart sank when he saw water in the stairwell with debris jammed in it almost to the top step. The hole for the vent also had water standing in it. They couldn't have had any fresh air since the flood receded.
Greg closed his eyes in sorrow, realizing that his friends had to be dead, suffocated in the room below his feet. It might even be full of water. Reluctantly, he accepted the fact that he was now alone, and he began thinking of his supplies again as he started back.
Chapter 5
At the shelter, he looked again for the water tower, hoping it had only fallen over and would be found nearby. But from a distance, he could see nothing except the solidified lava and the bare ground. There had been a lake within a mile on the other side of the tower. And even if the tower and lake were both gone, the floodwater must have stopped somewhere.
It also occurred to him that the mound where the tower had been might offer a better view of what, if anything, remained of the city. However, the visibility was changing hourly. Also, during his long wait in the shelter, he had noticed some of the food containers had alternately swelled and contracted.
He began to realize that the collision with the moon had displaced a huge quantity of the atmosphere, causing waves of changing depth like ripples on a pond. Eventually it would settle down. But in the meantime, he would have to make preparations for surviving the extreme weather fluctuations. In a search for water, he would need to take oxygen along with him. And he would need a breathing mask, in case a dust storm enveloped him.
Leaving the door ajar for light, he worked on his equipment. He fashioned a portable oxygen system out of a surplus army gasmask and a bag from his roll of plastic trash bags. A rubber tube and spring clips were assembled, using duct-tape, so that oxygen could be fed into the bag from a tank. Later it could be transferred to the mask as needed. The bag also served as a barometer. If low pressure began to develop, the bag would alert him by swelling, and he would head for the shelter.
Before the Moon fell, it would have been a short trip to the water tower. But now, not knowing how long it would take, he decided to eat before leaving. As he opened a can of Vienna Sausages, some of the contents sprayed onto his hands, and at the same time he realized that he felt lightheaded−low pressure!
He stuffed a tube from an oxygen tank under the edge of his gas mask and took a few healthy breaths, then loosened the caps on the water containers. Some of the food cans were swelling also, but there was nothing to do about that. He wanted to stay in the shelter and delay the search, but waiting for ideal conditions might mean never getting started.
Securing the oxygen bag to his side with tape, he climbed the stairs. The air had cleared up considerably during the last few hours, allowing him to see for several miles, giving him the confidence to check his oxygen gear and move down the gentle slope. When he reached the solid lava, he could feel the warm wind blowing across it, and he wondered if the slight vibration under his feet was from molten lava, still flowing not far beneath the surface. Stopping frequently to breathe a little oxygen, he was aware of how alone he was.
Hoping his random destruction theory was correct, he wondered how far he would have to travel to find people in an area that had suffered less damage. He was glad Helen didn't have to be here. He didn't think she could have handled it. Even if she could, he knew there was no way they could have lived together in the shelter.
In public, they had both pretended their marriage was a success, but even on the honeymoon she began trying to control him. She seemed to have no intention of getting along with him and he had always blamed that on Mable. However, he knew that a lot of the problem arose from a lack of understanding between him and Helen.
Her beauty had captivated him, and he had misunderstood her loving actions before they were married to mean she also thought there was something attractive about him. Part of her trouble, he thought, stemmed from the model of marriage she grew up with. All through her childhood she had watched her father and mother fighting, and apparently she came to think that was the way it was supposed to be.
Greg's childhood had been different. His parents didn't have a lot in common but were able to live happily together by being kind and helpful to each other. He didn't realize they were unusual in that respect until he was an adult. They had been older, and he missed them terribly after they died. And in spite of the problems in his marriage he still loved Helen and longed for the wife he had envisioned as he enjoyed dating her before their wedding.
Continuing across the flow he reached the far edge and started up the slope. By the time he got to the high ground he was breathing all right without extra oxygen, and his oxygen bag continued to decrease in size, which was good news. The bad news was the absence of the water tower. The floodwaters must have been deep and swift, washing it away along with everything else.
The only thing of interest he saw was an object in the distance to the east−too far away to identify. As he swept the horizon to the southeast, with his binoculars, the city couldn't be seen. Along with the increase of pressure, the air was becoming dirty. He continued his survey for several minutes, looking back to the east for the angular shape, which had vanished.
It had disappeared in the dust, and he became aware that the light was fading faster than it should. Looking behind him, he saw a huge black dust cloud with the Sun disappearing behind it. The monster was moving rapidly toward him, and he realized that he must hurry to the shelter immediately. He wanted to drop the heavy tools and run but decided against it.
The wind speed increased, and angry gusts began shoving him arrogantly. Putting on the mask, he tried to walk faster. But the wind continued to pick up steadily and he had difficulty keeping his feet. It was in his back; so he had to fight to keep it from throwing him on his face.
By the time he reached the shelter he could see no more than a few yards in front of him, and pieces of debris sailed by viciously. The oxygen bag was ripped away, but he held onto the breathing tube and the rest of his equipment until he staggered down the shelter steps and wrestled with the door to close it.
Slumping to the floor, he jerked impatiently on his mask. Getting it off, he turned on his flashlight briefly to see how dusty the air was. It didn’t look as bad as it had looked outside, but he decided to put the mask on again and he crawled onto the recliner. Exhausted, he dropped off to sleep, hoping the storm would let up and the weather would offer no additional ugly surprises. But he realized that to find water he would have to be away from the shelter longer than just a few hours.
Chapter 6
The next morning he cracked the door a little, looking out into subdued light. The wind was high, but there were no chunks of flying dirt and rock. Seeing that his canned goods had survived the low pressure, he climbed the steps, looking east in the direction of the next trip. It would be to identify the object he had seen from the water tower mound.
This trip would be a farther, so he packed supplies for two days. Putting a flashlight in his pocket, he hung the binoculars around his neck and put on the gasmask. It was uncomfortable and his vision was not as good through the aging goggles, but the air was too dirty to travel without it. He also took a large towel and a headband to protect him from the sun if the atmosphere cleared.
He felt sadness and guilt as he passed Bill and Carrie's tomb. Neither of them had the knowledge needed to prepare their shelter. He should have given them some help. He wanted to apologize, but it was too late now. He knew he had to put their lost behind him, and after a couple of hours of rising terrain, he saw part of a chain link fence protruded from the ground−the first sight of a surviving man-made object other than the shelters. He stooped to touch it; feeling it somehow provided a connection with the humans who had owned it.
As the barren rocky moonscape continued upward, he walked on, letting the wind carry him. He fought a panicky feeling when the light began to fade. Would he ever see another person? With his limited vision in the dusty air he might go past what he was looking for without seeing it, and it was getting cold. That surprised him; there had been no cold nights at the shelter.
Then it came to him. The huge lava flow had radiated enough heat to warm the area around the shelter for a long way. He would have to have some kind of insulation to stay warm through the night.
The air cleared slightly and he took off the bulky mask. He was more comfortable but the dust was still too bad, and just as he was about to put the mask on again he saw what looked like a truck. In his excitement it took only a second for him to position his binoculars. It was an army tank−too heavy to have been blown away by the wind or washed away by floodwaters. Then he recognized it. It was the tank standing at the gates of the National Guard−the armory, north of the city.
He donned the mask again and continued his approach. Debris had banked up against the side of it like snow. Climbing up on it, he looked in the open hatch. This was certainly better than nothing, he thought as he lowered himself down into it out of the wind.
The hatch closed easily as if it had been recently used, and the dusty contour seat felt good as he settled down into it. He took off the gas mask to eat, but in addition to filtering, it provided insulation, so he replaced it to sleep, and he used the towel around his shoulders for warmth. His bones ached. The day's walk had taxed him more than he had expected. He relaxed, dreading the lonely empty-handed return to the shelter as he drifted into a deep sleep.
Fighting against the head wind, he saw Helen coming toward him. It was their wedding day, and the gusts were whipping her veil out in front of her face. It was about to be blown away. He wanted to tell her to come in out of the flying sand, but she wouldn't listen to him.
Then he saw that it wasn't her veil; it was her blond hair, and she was listening to Mable's course black wig. He knew she shouldn't be listening to a wig and realized he needed to tell her the minister was coming.
She was still moving toward him but seemed to be sliding farther away, and he was reaching for her, heartbroken that he was losing her. The minister was laughing and beckoning to her. Greg had to tell her something that would keep her from going−he knew what it was but couldn't remember, and he was calling out to her when he woke up.
Lying there quietly he lifted the mask and wiped the tears from his cheeks. He didn't like to cry, not that he thought it was unmanly. He couldn't stop wondering if his marital troubles with Helen were his fault. He didn't know what he could have done, but if he had known how to take care of her maybe she wouldn't have died.
He listened to the wind. It had lessened some and seemed warmer since the night before. As he opened the hatch, he felt comfortable with the towel around him. But even with less wind, the air seemed dirtier, and he was thinking that he should head back toward the shelter and his provisions.
Before he crawled out he felt a drop of rain−then another. He closed the hatch and the rain began coming down in torrents. The light of day was attempting to penetrate the sheets of dirty water, and he could picture himself as a drowning rat, slogging through the mud.
The downpour lasted for a couple of hours. By the time it stopped he had eaten most of his food, and when he opened the hatch he looked out on beautiful clean air. His location was a perfect vantage point for looking down on the city, several miles to the south. But as he looked in that direction now all he saw was a lake of cooled lava. A wave of emotion swept over him. The university had been down there and it was gone. The city where hundreds of thousands lived had disappeared.
He sat down, collecting his thoughts to grapple with reality. Was the tank all that remained of the National Guard headquarters? Looking out again, he tried to remember how the complex had looked before.
Several buildings had been behind a parking lot. Now, the whole place looked like a rough parking lot with water puddles in it. He put on his towel and headband, and then picked his way on the high places, avoiding the muddiest spots, toward what looked like a sink hole−probably close to the back of the complex.
As he approached and peered down into the jagged recess he was startled to see two men. One lying face down near the bottom and the other bent over a large slab of concrete like he was staring at something. They couldn't have been there long, he thought, and as he clambered down the rocks toward them he realized they were dead.
They were wearing camouflage fatigue uniforms and were armed. What were they doing down in the sinkhole? As he looked to see where the man was staring he saw the upper part of a metal door. Were the men trying to get in that door for safety? Or were they trying to free people who were trapped?
Working his way over to the door, he put his ear against it. He couldn't hear a sound from inside but that didn't mean no one was there. His heart raced as he clawed at the stones, tossing them aside.
He tried the handle. It opened and inch before jamming against more rubble and the acrid odor of death met his nose in a sickening puff. He immediately pushed the door closed and leaned against it with a groan, looking up as if for guidance. The staring man was looking right at him. He was emaciated, his sunken eyes seeming to say, “What did you expect?” Greg almost spoke back. He stood for a while, trying to make up his mind about opening the door.
Chapter 7
Experiencing a mixture of feelings he pulled on the exposed edge of the door. It opened another inch, enough for him to see in before it jammed again. Something was leaning against it on the inside. He jerked on the door and a few strands of hair dangled from the opening. Clearing more of the rubble, he pulled the door open as the head and shoulders of a corpse fell out.
He moved it from the doorway, fighting nausea and noting that it had been dead for a long time. He put on the gas mask, thinking it would lessen the odor. It didn't. But he felt better with it on as he stood there peering in. It was dark inside, but he could see motionless bodies lying in the light of the door.
Sweeping the flashlight around the room, he saw the floor was strewn with the dead as though they had all died at the same time. Visions of what had happened went through his mind−people crowding into the basement shelter to escape the storm−maybe some of them thinking they were going to exit in a few hours at most. But the earthquakes and storms had sealed them in−a mother holding her baby−a dog lying in a protective position on his owner. Whole families were huddled together. Tears welled up in his eyes.
He knew they were all dead, but he called out several times with no answer and seeing no movement, still unable to accept the thought that they could no longer respond. When he took a few steps inside, he felt light headed and realized there was no oxygen, but he was able to get back out the door.
On hands and knees, facing the wind, he took deep breaths of the fresh air as he noticed the tile floor where he had removed the rubble. It was dry, and he realized the room must have a working drain that took care of the rainwater. Feeling better he peered back in the doorway and could see that the huge room had been the Armory's garage. At the other end, almost out of range, there appeared to be a ramp, which had been sealed off with various pieces of equipment, including a Jeep and some kind of field artillery piece.
There was a truck parked next to the ramp, and on one wall was a rack full of tires and some shelves with batteries and various tools on them. By the other wall was a Jeep trailer and a lawn mower parked next to a pair of large storage tanks, probably gasoline, he thought.
The Jeep was partially covered with boards, paneling, mattresses and apparently whatever the people had been able to find to shut out the violence of the storms. There was no evidence that they had tried to open up the ramp when the air began to get bad, and the Jeep looked unharmed by the use to which it had been put.
Resigned to the loss of life, Greg filled the dead guardsmen's canteens from a clear looking puddle. He didn’t want their pistols, but leaving them there for someone else to use didn’t seem like a good idea. So he hid them, holsters, ammo belts and all, in the rocks. Then, at the front of the complex he found where the exit ramp from the basement had emerged.
The Jeep, he knew, had to be only a few feet below him, on that ramp. But to reach it he needed time and tools, and he was hungry. He could think of no way to avoid returning to the shelter for provisions, so he headed west, using the constant wind direction as a compass. When he got there he planned the next trip to the Guard basement before falling asleep on the broken recliner.
Waking in the middle of the night, he had a headache, and he could hear the sound of a waterfall. When he cracked the door a little, the swirling wind in the stairwell blew water all over him, and water was running in at his feet. It was gathering in the stairwell faster than the drain could take care of it. Closing the door, he bolted it, hoping it would seal good enough to keep the water out of the shelter while the stairwell drained.
With his head throbbing, he dried his hands and used the flashlight to find a bottle of aspirin. It was all he could do to open it, and it sounded like he was opening a vacuum pack−high air pressure! There was nothing to do but tough it out and hope for survival. The aspirin would help, and as he took a couple, his flashlight shined on the stack of 5-gallon cans in which he had packed clothing.
He dumped the clothes in a pile and opened the door enough to place 4 of the cans on the stairwell floor, avoiding the drain, and then he jumped back in, slamming the door. Dripping wet, he leaned against it and wiped the water from his eyes as he realized it was a waiting game again. He put on dry clothing and drifted off to sleep, listening to the downpour. By morning the rain had stopped and his headache was gone.
Emptying the captured rainwater into his storage containers, he gathered provisions and tools. After filling another oxygen bag he put on a jacket and started out toward the armory, thinking of how much easier it would be to make this trip with the Jeep.
Arriving, he began removing the debris immediately. Within an hour he was exhausted, trying to remove heavy wet mattresses. Breathing with difficulty, he felt faint and glanced at his oxygen bag, which looked as though it was going to explode. The mask was only an arm's length away, and he pulled it over his head. With his deep breaths coming fast he stuffed the oxygen tube under its edge and opened the clamp slightly.
Steam was rising from the wet mattresses, and the water puddles from the rain looked like they were boiling. His ears ached and his skin felt dry and taut. With stinging eyes, he looked at a large puddle bubbling close to him. And acting on instinct, he slithered down into it facing the wind, being careful not to disconnect his oxygen equipment. The water soaking into his clothes made his skin feel better, and he raised the air pressure around his mask by facing the wind and pulling his jacket up over the back of his head.
Losing consciousness intermittently, he couldn't keep track of how much time was elapsing. But he gradually realized that his clothing and the ground around him were dry. The oxygen bag was empty, but he had no problem breathing. With normal air pressure, the Sun had tracked well into the west.
With the low pressure gone he felt good, except for being hungry. After crawling out of his warm resting place, he ate. Then, clearing the dry debris from the ramp in the sunlight, he found a mechanics station in the garage−tools, tires, batteries and boxes of auto parts.
He examined the Jeep, finding the key in the ignition, but when he twisted it the engine didn't turn over. While getting a new battery, he noticed, in the light from the open ramp, that most of the corpses had singed hair and a few had burned places on their clothing. Not knowing what to make of that, he replaced the dead battery with the new one. When he turned the key, the engine spun over rapidly, but didn't start.
After giving it a rest, Greg tried the starter again, and the engine leaped into action. The noise echoed in the garage after he turned it off. He propped the back door wide open to allow for maximum ventilation, and as the odor of death became less noticeable, what remained of it was masked by the smell of gasoline.
Then he noticed a black spot on the ceiling over one tank and on the wall behind it. With a closer examination he saw that the tank had ruptured. He concluded a spark must have occurred, igniting the gasoline and causing the room to become a fireball. It could have lasted only a few seconds, and when the oxygen was gone, the rest of the gasoline above the rupture had leaked out onto the floor. The people were probably dead by the time the room cooled down.
Greg knew he wasn't responsible for the deaths, but he felt both sadness and guilt: sadness over the heartbreaking disaster, and guilt because they were dead and he was still alive. He had a sinking feeling in his chest. What was he supposed to do now? He felt helpless.
There were no social rules of behavior that made any sense. He didn't want to think about it. Nausea overcame him and his stomach emptied itself. The day was almost gone and he needed to get back to the shelter−back home. He needed the familiar surroundings for comfort.
Chapter 8
Gassing up the Jeep Greg headed west. Riding in the Jeep, the landscape looked different, so he picked smooth places for the Jeep and drove toward the setting Sun. He came to the lava flow before dark and recognized the shelter area some distance to the south.
He parked on the slab, which used to be his garage floor and stepped down into the shelter, pleased to note that his food supply had not exploded during the low pressure. But he was physically exhausted. Able to put the heartache of the day behind him, he flopped down on his recliner and slept soundly.
He awoke with a start. What day was it? Half awake, he thought he might have overslept. He would have to take a quick shower. What time was it? He looked over toward his clock radio. It wasn't there! He crashed into reality at the sight of the ugly oxygen bottle surrounded by his boxes of provisions. The clock radio, his job, his research and classes−maybe even the days of a week were gone forever. He wanted to go back to sleep and start over.
Then he became aware that there was no noise−the silence! He had forgotten the wonderful sound of it. He listened, realizing silence is what had sent his mind gently back to a spring morning, eager to get to work. It was as if someone had turned everything off.
The light streaming in the door crack was inviting. He got to his feet slowly, not wanting to make a sound. Opening the door, he climbed the steps. It was a gorgeous day, just the right temperature and its beauty overrode the depression of the previous evening. This day was made for finding water and for finding other survivors. As he carried supplies to the Jeep the west wind resumed a steady flow. It felt good. With the Jeep loaded he took the same route east he had used before.