Footprints of Thunder Read online

  Dr. Coombs cranked up the shortwave again. Colter and Petra answered immediately; the atmospheric conditions made for good reception. But it took three tries to get Mrs. Wayne and Ernie Powell, who could barely be heard through static. They agreed to check in every half hour.

  The half-hour checks continued into the evening, but nothing happened. It was late when Dr. Coombs cooked up a stew for dinner, and they ate the beef and vegetables in silence, soaking up the gravy with buttermilk biscuits. After dinner they built a fire and sat in lawn chairs outside the RV. It was a clear night, and despite the full moon they could see the Milky Way. In the campground other travelers slowly drifted off to their tents or trailers, taking their family sounds with them and leaving the doctors in silence.

  The radio crackled to life at eleven. Petra was calling with nothing to report, except a beautiful evening. Colter shouted something unintelligible from the background, eliciting a frown from Dr. Piltcher. The call from Ernie Powell followed, the static just as bad as ever, but they too had nothing to report. Dr. Coombs found a stick and began poking the fire. After sending several showers of sparks into the air, he spoke to Dr. Piltcher.

  “You know, Chester, I’ve been thinking about that static.” Dr. Coombs poked the fire again. “I’ve been wondering if it could have anything to do with the effect.”

  Dr. Piltcher’s eyebrows raised slightly.

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing, George.”

  Dr. Coombs knew Dr. Piltcher had been thinking no such thing, but he was unwilling to concede an original thought to anyone. It irritated Dr. Coombs only mildly. Dr. Coombs had long ago given up the endless quest for recognition. He was a true scientist now. He wanted only to understand. Whether he or Dr. Piltcher took credit for good ideas, made no difference.

  He poked the fire again. “Of course the static could be the effect itself.”

  Dr. Piltcher’s eyebrows went up sharply again.

  “Oh, no. I … I can’t accept that.”

  Dr. Coombs understood. They both feared what could happen, but they also had invested in it. They, and the rest of the group, had cut their social and professional ties believing something was going to happen. They needed an event more important than a little electromagnetic interference on the radio.

  They talked awhile about the static, speculating on its source. As the fire burned hot and bright they sat exchanging ideas, questioning each other, building up and breaking down theory after theory. These kinds of discussions had characterized their entire friendship. Two lonely men, whom others thought odd, drawn together by a common love of the ancient and the mysterious. Not once in their seven-year friendship had they ever run out of conversation, because the world had never run out of mysteries.

  The midnight check-in brought no news. Petra reported she would take the first watch, but they could hear Colter giggling drunkenly in the background. Dr. Piltcher’s face reddened, but there was nothing he could do. Colter was useful at times, and Petra seemed to need him, but Colter was undisciplined, and— even worse from Dr. Piltcher’s perspective—dumb. Petra’s attraction to Colter was one mystery Dr. Piltcher could not even begin to fathom. Here was a serious, brilliant young woman, who lived to learn, while Colter was a young man with a mediocre intellect, dedicated to drinking, partying, and apparently sex. Dr. Piltcher could understand why Colter was attracted to pretty and personable Petra. Dr. Piltcher finally concluded Petra’s need for Colter must be hormonal.

  Mrs. Wayne checked in a minute later and reported no changes. Dr. Piltcher could hear a radio in the background going over the evening’s baseball scores—Ernie’s Cincinnati Reds were in the thick of the pennant race. Mrs. Wayne also reported that Shontel assured her their prediction was accurate and it would happen soon. Dr. Piltcher thanked her and asked her to pass his thanks to Shontel.

  Dr. Piltcher and Dr. Coombs returned to the discussion of the static problem, and the role of sunspots in such interference. They had just begun discussing spot cycles when Petra’s voice sounded behind them. They hurried to the RV to respond.

  “Something’s happened here. It might be nothing, but there was a strange noise a minute ago, a kind of whumping sound. Now there’s a range fire east of here. Pretty big one. It came out of nowhere.”

  Dr. Piltcher and Dr. Coombs turned to look at each other. Dr. Coombs spoke first.

  “I expected something more. I don’t think this is it.”

  “Agreed,” Dr. Piltcher said. He directed Petra: “You shouldn’t get near it tonight. Keep a safe distance and check it out in the morning. We’ll contact Mrs. Wayne and Ernie just to be sure.”

  Dr. Piltcher signed off and then called for Mrs. Wayne. The static had diminished some but was still annoying.

  “Mrs. Wayne, Mrs. Wayne. Are you reading me, Mrs. Wayne?”

  After a few minutes he switched to calling for Ernie Powell. Neither ever answered.

  11. Pig Pile

  Fiery winds and fierce clouds lashed the world accompanied by violent hailstorms. When the storm abated the beings who had been hidden beneath the earth multiplied upon the earth.

  —New Zealand, Maori Oral History

  Oregon Caves

  Time Quilt: Saturday, 11:05 P.M. PST

  Terry saw that the military man had inched his way forward so that he was sitting near the front of the group now. He’d moved there during the blackout. When the kid finally pulled a light out of his pack and snapped it on, the military man was in the front row. The kid was distracted for the next few minutes, screaming out the entrance that he wanted the lights back on, and Terry was sure the military man would make his move, but the kid did a good job of keeping his gun pointed at the group, and nothing happened.

  Now Terry wanted to move forward too, but felt it might jeopardize the rescue. So instead, Terry had inched himself a little sideways until there was a clear path between him and the kid with the gun. Terry did not have the training or nerve to do anything alone, but he hoped he could help the military man if necessary.

  The chance came sooner than Terry had expected.

  He was partially dozing with his head on his knees when another voice reverberated through the cave, startling everyone awake.

  “Hello in the cave.”

  The kid was startled too and stood turning toward the noise. At that instant the military man jumped to his feet and raced toward the kid, who jerked back around, but it was too late. The military man barreled into the kid, knocking him backward, his hands outstretched and reaching for the gun as the kid fell onto his back.

  Terry hesitated, but when he realized no one else was doing anything he jumped to his feet and sprinted toward the struggling men. He could see the gun was still in the kid’s hand and the military man was trying to hold the gun arm down. At the same time the kid was kicking and shoving and punching with his other hand. Terry dove onto the struggling pair, reaching for the gun. His landing partially knocked the military man sideways, and he lost his grip on the gun arm, which Terry grabbed—then realized that the kid might be too strong for him to control. There was a manic look in the kid’s eyes and his strength seemed out of proportion to his body.

  The military man was swinging around to get a better grip when another person hit the pile so hard he knocked Terry over the kid’s arm and the military man off of the kid entirely. The new person wore a helmet and climbing clothes, and slid so far forward that he was nearly sitting on the kid’s face.

  Terry realized that he was now lying in front of the gun and the gun was pointed at his leg. He let go and jumped up as a young woman in climbing clothes held him back and then did a knee drop on the kid’s solar plexus, ending the fight.

  They were soon surrounded by police officers and rangers, and the kid, now handcuffed, had gone from mania to severe depression in seconds. He was crying and begging them to leave him in the cave. “It may not have happened yet,” he said over and over again. “Please, let me stay here. Jill! Jill! Please don’t let them take
me out. It’s too soon. Please, Jill!”

  Jill began comforting him, repeating “it will be okay,” but Terry doubted the kid could hear his sister. The kid was in a different reality.

  Finally, Terry heard someone call over the radio for a stretcher, and the police escorted the hostages from the cave. The kid was still sobbing and begging when the hostages left.

  When they reached the surface, the police needed to interview all the hostages and have them fill out reports. It took hours.

  It was nearly dawn when Terry and Ellen were finally released. As they walked toward the parking lot Terry saw the military man. When his eyes met Terry’s, he and his wife began walking toward them. The couples met with hands extended.

  “My name’s Conrad, Bill Conrad. Good job in there,” he said to Terry.

  “I only followed your lead. I’m Terry and this is my wife Ellen.”

  “This is my wife Angie. Man, wasn’t that strange?” Bill said shaking his head from side to side in slow movements. “I wonder what he thought was going to happen?”

  In the parking lot they found a knot of excited people clustered around a motor home. Terry could hear voices from a CB radio.

  “What’s going on?” Angie asked.

  A couple broke off from the group, anxious to share the excitement with newcomers.

  “You’re not going to believe this, but something has happened to the interstate. It’s gone!”

  “What? An avalanche?” Terry asked.

  “Maybe,” the woman responded, “but that’s not the way it sounds. You drive up 1-5 and it just ends. Where there was a four-lane highway, now there’s grass, trees, and a mountain. Can you believe that? A mountain.”

  12. Road Games

  … the day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night. When people say, “there is peace and security,” then sudden destruction will come upon them…

  —I Thessalonians 5:2

  Newberg, Oregon

  Time Quilt: Saturday, 11:20 P.M. PST

  Ripman was keeping time from the driver’s seat of Cubby’s van while Cubby stared at the Taco Bell sign. John was spread out on the bench behind them. All three of them had Big Gulps wedged in their crotches. Ripman kept calling out the time and revving the engine.

  “Two minutes, big guy. You got two minutes! No way you’re gonna win. I can taste that pie already.”

  “Cram it, Ripman,” Cubby growled.

  All three of them slurped periodically on their Big Gulps. It was the last turn of the last round, and the loser was buying Hostess pies. Ripman was way ahead, so the contest was between Cubby and John.

  They were twenty miles out of Portland in Newberg, one of the too-small towns that had nearly faded into obscurity when the interstate had bypassed it thirty years ago. The motels, drive-ins, and restaurants that had eked out a modest living off the highway traffic were mostly gone now, and the town was at the mercy of the big paper mill. Given another two decades of urban growth, Newberg would be absorbed into the urban sprawl of Portland. For now, however, fifteen miles of forests and farms separated Newberg from the city.

  John, Cubby, and Ripman normally played road anagrams on 82nd Avenue or 122nd in Portland, but they’d gotten bored and craved new territory. So they found Newberg. There was a little college there, and they drove around for a while yelling out the van windows at the coeds. When they tired of that they found lots of opportunity for their game along the highway.

  They started on the west side of town at the Dairy Queen, one of the old-fashioned kind with no eating space inside. A reader board outside advertised specials on blizzards and banana splits.

  BUZZARDS $1.99

  BANANA SPLITS $1.99

  SUNDAES $1.49

  Ripman studied the sign for a minute, waited until there was a lull in the traffic, then reshuffled the letters so the sign read

  LIZZARD LIP SUNDAES $99.99

  He left the rest of the letters in a pile on the ground. Cubby loved it, and John had to admit it was a high scorer.

  John went next, picking the AM/PM sign. The sign read

  PARTY TIME? WE HAVE BEER AND ICE

  when they pulled in. John switched the letters around so the sign read

  PARTY?

  WE HAVE RICE AND BEET

  Ripman called it a “piss poor effort,” and Cubby just snorted agreement.

  When John challenged Cubby to do better, Cubby picked the D &. D video sign:

  JOIN OUR VIDEO GOLD CLUB

  MEMBER DISCOUNTS

  Cubby hopped out and came back a minute later. As they pulled out they read

  RODEO MOLD ONE DIME

  Ripman cackled his approval, pulled into the 7-Eleven and made John buy Big Gulps.

  When Cubby finished this round, one way or another he was going to have to tell them he had to get home. It was nearly eleven-thirty, and under no circumstances could he take the chance of staying out past midnight. His parents would be home from their trip by now, and he didn’t want them to think he’d been out past curfew every night.

  The worst part would be telling his friends he had to get home, “Jeez,” Ripman would say, “they’ve really got you whipped. What a wuss.” Cubby wouldn’t say much in words, but his crooked smile and raised eyebrows would say as much as Ripman did in words.

  John was always the first to have to get home. His father was a psychologist and occasionally taught parenting classes. His credibility depended on how he raised his own kids, so he was meticulous in that area. “The keys to good parenting,” his father always said, “are consistency and discipline.” While John had a clear set of rules that were virtually inviolable, Ripman’s father didn’t care what he did, as long as he did it somewhere else. And Ripman was usually somewhere else.

  Cubby’s father was the worst though. He was the most popular minister in the state and even had a regional following on cable TV. He “trusted” his son. He “trusted” him enough to buy him the van, and “trusted” him enough not to put restrictions on him, except one. He had to be in church every Sunday morning and every Wednesday evening. Otherwise, until he violated his father’s trust, what Cubby did was “between his son and the Holy Spirit.” As far as John knew, Cubby had never done anything to violate that trust. At least not anything his father knew about. There was no way to know what the “Holy Spirit” knew.

  “All right, Ripman,” Cubby said with confidence in his voice, “get me under that sign. This is for Hostess pies, right?”

  Ripman put the van in gear and pulled up. Before it stopped rolling Cubby had his head poked up through the sunroof and was holding the long-handled sign changer, which Ripman had “found” and Cubby kept in his van. Overhead signs always earned more points.

  Cubby, at six foot five inches with a heavily packed frame, filled the opening in the roof. The football coaches drooled every time Cubby walked by, but Cubby had never had any interest in their game. The biggest guy in school, he was about the gentlest. If you looked at his face closely enough you could see the babyish look of the pale blue eyes and the rounded facial features, but you had to look quick because Cubby had learned that the best way to avoid having to be tough is to look tough. Cubby had the tough look down cold. He’d stare at you glassy eyed and not blink or flinch no matter what you did, and then he would talk slowly, and simply, with a lot of menace in his voice but no cursing. It was pretty effective. John didn’t know anyone else who could act that tough without swearing their brains out.

  Cubby popped down from the roof and tossed the gripper toward the back.

  “Hit it, Ripman.”

  After Ripman swung out of the parking lot, he and John looked back at the sign, which had started with:

  TODAY’S SPECIAL

  BURRITO, TOSTATA

  OR TWO TACOS AND LARGE COKE

  $1.99

  Now it read:

  TACOS TASTE LIKE BUTS SMELL

  Cubby had to invert the w to get the m and used the 1 from $ 1.99 for one of the ls but
there was no rule against it and it could earn you extra points. It was the best anagram of the night, and Ripman was cracking up.

  “Elemental. I love it. El-ahh-men-tahl.”

  Elemental was Ripman’s favorite superlative. He used it for everything that pleased him. When John and Cubby first heard him use it they thought he meant elementary, like the word Sherlock Holmes was always using to insult Dr. Watson. Ripman was clear though, it was elemental, and it meant the simple and basic things—the things that life was really all about. And to Ripman that meant things that didn’t depend on other things. That was Ripman’s dream. To live a life that didn’t depend on other people, on things, or on society.

  Ripman was a self-proclaimed woodsman, but you didn’t call him a survivalist to his face. Survivalists weren’t elemental enough for Ripman. To Ripman the chink in the survivalists’ armor was their dependence on technology: freeze-dried food, water recycling systems, solar-powered stills, and automatic weapons. To Ripman, an elemental person was someone who needed only a knife to survive, not an Uzi.

  “Elemental!” Ripman exclaimed again. “Cubby, once again you stumbled uncontrollably into a winner.” To John he chortled, “Get your wallet out, it’s pie time.”

  Eager to get back, John was just glad the game was over. At the 7-Eleven they all piled out and went in to select their pies. Cubby picked apple, as always. John picked a berry pie and Ripman the lemon. Cubby was reading the front page of the National Enquirer when John and Ripman headed out the front door.

  “Jeez, John, why do you buy those things?” Ripman asked.