A great light glared behind them. Willis turned. It sank slowly—too bright to see, blinding, drowning the background—Willis stared into it. God, what was it? Sinking…faded.
“I hope you hid your eyes,” MacDonald said.
Willis saw only agony. He blinked; it made no difference. He said, “I think I’m blind.” He reached out, patted rock, seeking the reassurance of a human hand.
Softly MacDonald said, “I don’t think it matters.”
Rage flared and died. That quickly, Willis knew what he meant. MacDonald’s hands took his wrists and moved them around a rock. “Hug that tight. I’ll tell you what I see.”
“Right.”
MacDonald’s speech seemed hurried. “When the light went out I opened my eyes. For a moment I think I saw something like a violet searchlight beam going up, then it was gone. But it came from behind the horizon. We’ll have some time.”
“Thera’s a bad luck island,” Willis said. He could see nothing, not even darkness.
“Did you ever wonder why they still build here? Some of the houses are hundreds of years old. Eruptions every few centuries. But they always come back. For that matter, what’re we doing—Alex, I can see the tidal wave. It gets taller every second. I don’t know if it’ll reach this high or not. Brace yourself for the air shock wave, though.”
“Ground shock first. I guess this is the end of Greek civilization.”
“I suppose so. And a new Atlantis legend, if anyone lives to tell it. The curtain’s still rising. Streamlines from the nucleus in the west, Earth’s black shadow in the east, meteors everywhere…” MacDonald’s voice trailed off.
“What?”
“I closed my eyes. But it was northeast! and huge!”
“Greg, who named Mount Prophet Elias? It’s too bloody appropriate.”
The ground shock ripped through and beneath Thera, through the magma channel that the sea bed had covered thirty-five hundred years before. Willis felt the rock wrench at his arms. Then Thera exploded. A shock wave of live steam laced with lava tore him away and killed him instantly. Seconds later the tsunami rolled across the raw orange wound.
Nobody would live to tell of the second Thera explosion.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
I conceived Harry the Mailman. Lurton Blassingame, our agent, thought Harry was a wonderful character but didn’t want him delivering his mail. Jerry and I traded off working him. His route was discussed in minute detail during conferences, and the people along his route are largely Jerry’s. When Jerry opened a scene to demonstrate security at the Stronghold gate, I used Harry to blast the gate guard out of his rut.
We always knew Harry the Mailman would become civilization.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
Harry Newcombe saw nothing of Hammerfall, and it was Jason Gillcuddy’s fault. Gillcuddy had imprisoned himself in the wilderness (he said) to diet and to write a novel. He had dropped twelve pounds in six months, but he could afford more. As for his isolation, it was certain that he would rather talk to a passing postman than write.
As the best coffee cup was to be found at the Silver Valley Ranch, so Gillcuddy, on the other side of the valley, made the best coffee. “But,” Harry told him, smiling, “I’d slosh if I let everyone feed me two cups. I’m popular, I am.”
“Kid, you’d better take it. My lease is up come Thursday, and Ballad’s finished. Next Trash Day I’ll be gone.”
“Finished. Hey, beautiful! Am I in it?”
“No, I’m sorry, Harry, but the damn thing was getting too big. You know how it is; what you like best is usually what has to go. But the coffee’s Jamaica Blue Mountain. When I celebrate—”
“Yeah. Pour.”
“Shot of brandy?”
“Have some respect for the uniform, if you…Well, hell, I can’t pour it out, can I.”
“To my publisher.” Gillcuddy raised his cup, carefully. “He said if I didn’t fulfill his contract he’d put out a contract on me.”
“Tough business.”
“Well, but the money’s good.”
A distant thunderclap registered at the back of Harry’s mind. Summer storm coming? He sipped at his coffee. It really was something special.
But there were no thunder clouds when he walked outside. Harry had been up before dawn; the valley farmers kept strange hours, and so did postmen. He had seen the pearly glow of the comet’s tail wrapping the Earth. Some of that glory still clung, softening the direct sunlight and whiting the blue of the sky. Like smog, but clean. There was a strange stillness, as if the day were waiting for something.
So it was back to Chicago for Jason Gillcuddy, until the next time he had to imprison himself to diet and write a novel. Harry would miss him. Jason was the most literate man in the valley, possibly excepting the Senator—who was real. Harry had seen him from a distance yesterday, arriving in a vehicle the size of a bus. Maybe they’d meet today.
He was driving briskly along toward the Adams place when the truck began to shake. He braked. Flat tire? Damage to a wheel? The road shuddered and seemed to twist, the truck was trying to shake his brains out. He got it stopped. It was still shaking! He turned off the ignition. Still shaking?
“I should have looked at that brandy bottle. Huh. Earthquake?” The tremors died away. “There aren’t any fault lines around here. I thought.”
He drove on, more slowly. The Adams farm was a long jog on the new route he’d planned to get him there early. He didn’t dare go up to the house…and that would save him a couple of minutes. There had been no new complaints from Mrs. Adams. But he hadn’t seen Donna in weeks.
Harry took off his sunglasses. The day had darkened without his noticing. It was still darkening: clouds streaming across the sky like a speeded-up movie, lightning flashing in their dark bellies. Harry had never seen anything like it. Summer storm, right; it was going to rain.
The wind howled like demons breaking through from Hell. The sky had gone from ugly to hideous. Harry had never seen anything like these roiling black clouds sputtering with lightning. It would have served Mrs. Adams right, he thought vindictively, if he had left her mail in the box outside the gate.
But it might be Donna who would have to make the soggy trip. Harry drove up and parked under the porch overhang. As he got out the rain came, and the overhang was almost no protection; the wind whipped rain in all directions.
And it might have been Donna who answered the door, but it wasn’t. Mrs. Adams showed no sign of pleasure at seeing him. Harry raised his voice above the storm—“Your mail, Mrs. Adams”—his voice as cold as her face.
“Thank you,” she said, and closed the door firmly.
The rain poured from the sky like a thousand bathtubs emptying, and washed from the truck in filthy brown streams. It shamed Harry. He hadn’t guessed that the truck was that dirty. He climbed in, half soaked already, and drove off.
Was weather like this common in the valley? Harry had been here just over a year, and he’d seen nothing remotely like this. Noah’s Flood! He badly wanted to ask someone about it.
Anyone but Mrs. Adams.
This had been the dry season in the valley. Carper Creek had been way down, a mere ripple of water wetting the bottoms of the smooth white boulders that formed its bed, as late as this morning. But when Harry Newcombe drove across the wooden bridge, the creek was beating against the bottom and washing over the upstream edge. The rain still fell with frantic urgency.
Harry pulled way over to put two envelopes in Gentry’s mailbox. The only time he had ever seen Gentry, the farmer had been pointing a shotgun at him. Gentry was a hermit, and his need for up-to-the-minute mail was not urgent, and Harry didn’t like him.
His wheels spun disconcertingly before they caught and pulled him back on the road. Sooner or later he would get stuck. He had given up hope of finishing his route today. Maybe he could beg
a meal and a couch from the Millers.
Now the road led steeply uphill. Harry drove in low gear, half blind in the rain and the lightning and the blackness between. Presently there was empty space on his left, a hillside on his right, trees covering both. Harry hugged the hillside. The cab was thoroughly wet, the air warm and 110 percent humid.
Harry braked sharply.
The hillside had slipped. It ran right across the road and on down, studded with broken and unbroken trees.
Briefly Harry considered going back. But it was back toward Gentry’s and then the Adamses’, and the hell with it: The rain had already washed part of the mudslide away; what was left wasn’t all that steep. Harry drove up the mud lip. First gear and keep it moving. If he bogged down, it would be a wet walk home.
The truck lurched. Harry used wheel and accelerator, biting his lower lip. No use; the mud itself was sliding, he had to get off! He floored the accelerator. The wheels spun futilely, the truck tilted. Harry turned off the ignition and dove for the floorboards and covered his face with his arms.
The truck gently rocked and swung like a small boat at anchor; swung too far and turned on its side. Then it smashed into something massive, wheeled around and struck something else, and stopped moving.
Harry lifted his head.
A tree trunk had smashed the windshield. The frosted safety glass bowed inward before it. That tree and another now wedged the truck in place. It lay on the passenger side, and it wasn’t coming out without a lot of help, at least a tow truck and men with chain saws.
Harry was hanging from the seat belt. Gingerly he unfastened it, decided he wasn’t hurt.
And now what? He wasn’t supposed to leave the mail unguarded, but he couldn’t sit here all day! “How am I going to finish the route?” he asked himself, and giggled, because it was pretty obvious that he wasn’t going to get that done today. He would have to let the mail pile up until tomorrow. The Wolf would be furious…and Harry couldn’t help that.
He took the registered letter for Senator Jellison and slipped it into his pocket. There were a couple of small packets that Harry thought might be valuable, and he put them in another pocket. The big stuff, books, and the rest of the mail would just have to take care of itself.
He started out into the rain.
It drove into his face, blinding him, soaking him in an instant. The mud slipped beneath his feet, and in seconds he was clutching wildly at a small tree to keep from falling into the rapidly rising creek far below. He stood there a long moment.
No. He wasn’t going to get to a telephone. Not through that. Better to wait it out. Luckily he was back on his charted route again; the Wolf would know where to look for him—only Harry couldn’t think of any vehicle that could reach him, not through that.
Lightning flared above him, a double flash, blinkblink. Thunder exploded instantly. He felt a distinct tingle in his wet feet. Close!
Painfully he made his way back to the truck and got inside. It wasn’t insulated from the ground, but it seemed the safest place to wait out the lightning storm…and at least he hadn’t left the mail unguarded. That had worried him. Better to deliver it late than let it be stolen.
Definitely better, he decided, and tried to make himself comfortable. The hours wore on and there was no sign of the storm letting up.
Harry slept badly. He made a nest back in the cargo compartment, sacrificing some shopping circulars and his morning newspaper. He woke often, always hearing the endless drumming of rain on metal. When earth and sky turned from lightning-lit black to dull gray with less lightning, Harry squirmed around and searched out yesterday’s carton of milk. A premonition of need had made him leave it until now. It wasn’t enough; he was famished. And he missed his morning coffee.
“Next place,” he told himself, and imagined a big mug of hot steaming coffee, perhaps with a bit of brandy in it (although no one but Gillcuddy was going to offer him that).
The rain had slackened off a bit, and so had the howling wind. “Or else I’m going deaf,” he said. “GOING DEAF! Well, maybe not.” Cheerful by nature, he was quick to find the one bright point in a gloomy situation. “Good thing it isn’t Trash Day,” he told himself.
He took his feet out of the leather mailbag, where they’d stayed near-dry during the long night, and put his boots back on. Then he looked at the mail. There was barely enough light.
“First class only,” he told himself. “Leave the books.” He wondered about Senator Jellison’s Congressional Record, and the magazines. He decided to take them. Eventually he had stuffed his bag with everything except the largest packages. He stood and wrestled the driver’s door open, trapdoor fashion, and pushed the mailbag out onto the side—now the top—of the truck. Then he climbed out after it. The rain was still falling, and he spread a piece of plastic over the top of the mailbag.
The truck shifted uneasily.
Mud had piled along the high side of the truck, level with the wheels. Harry shouldered the bag and started uphill. He felt his footing shift, and he sprinted uphill.
Behind him the trees bowed before the weight of truck and shifting mud. Their roots pulled free, and the truck rolled, gathering speed.
Harry shook his head. This was probably his last circuit; Wolfe wouldn’t like losing a truck. Harry started up the uneasy mud slope, looking about him as he went. He needed a walking stick. Presently he found a tilted sapling, five feet long and supple, that came out of the mud by its loosened roots.
Marching was easier after he reached the road. He was going downhill, back from the long detour to the Adamses’. The heavy mud washed off his boots and his feet grew lighter. The rain fell steadily. He kept looking upslope, alert for more mudslides.
“Five pounds of water in my hair alone,” he groused. “Keeps my neck warm, though.” The pack was heavy. A hip belt would have made carrying it easier.
Presently he began to sing.
I went out to take a friggin’ walk by the friggin’ reservoir,
a-wishin’ for a friggin’ quid to pay my friggin’ score,
my head it was a-achin’ and my throat was parched and dry,
and so I sent a little prayer, a-wingin’ to the sky…
He topped the slight rise and saw a blasted transmission tower. High-tension wires lay across the road. The steel tower had been struck by lightning, perhaps several times, and seemed twisted at the top.
How long ago? And why weren’t the Edison people out to fix it? Harry shrugged. Then he noticed the telephone lines. They were down too. He wouldn’t be calling in from his next stop.
And there came a friggin’ falcon and he walked upon the waves,
and I said, “A friggin’ miracle!” and sang a couple staves,
of a friggin’ churchy ballad I learned when I was young.
The friggin’ bird took to the air, and spattered me with dung.
I fell upon my friggin’ knees and bowed my friggin’ head,
and said three friggin’ Aves for all my friggin’ dead,
and then I got upon my feet and said another ten.
The friggin’ bird burst into flame—and spattered me again.
There was the Millers’ gate. He couldn’t see anyone. There were no fresh ruts in their drive. Harry wondered if they’d gone out last night. They certainly hadn’t made it out today. He sank into deep mud as he went up the long drive toward the house. They wouldn’t have a phone, but maybe he could bum a cup of coffee, even a ride into town.
The burnin’ bird hung in the sky just like a friggin’ sun.
It seared my friggin’ eyelids shut, and when the job was done,
the friggin’ bird flashed cross the sky just like a shootin’ star.
I ran to tell the friggin’ priest—he bummed my last cigar.
I told him of the miracle, he told me of the Rose,
I showed him bird crap in my hair, the bastard held his nose.
I went to see the bishop but the friggin’ bishop said,
“Go home and sleep it off, you sod—and wash your friggin’ head!”
No one answered his knock at the Millers’ front door. The door stood slightly ajar. Harry called in, loudly, and there was still no answer. He smelled coffee.
He stood a moment, then fished out two letters and a copy of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, pushed the door open and went inside, mail held like an ambassador’s passport. He sang loudly:
Then I came upon a friggin’ wake for a friggin’ rotten swine,
by the name of Jock O’Leary and I touched his head with mine,
and old Jock sat up in his box and raised his friggin’ head.
His wife took out a forty-four, and shot the bastard dead.
Again I touched his head with mine and brought him back to life.
His smiling face rolled on the floor, this time she used a knife.
And then she fell upon her knees, and started in to pray,
“It’s forty years, O Lord,” she said, “I’ve waited for this day.”
He left the mail on the front-room table where he usually piled stuff on Trash Day, then wandered toward the kitchen, led by the smell of coffee. He continued to sing loudly, lest he be shot as an intruder.
So I walked the friggin’ city ’mongst the friggin’ halt and lame,
and every time I raised ’em up, they got knocked down again,
’cause the love of God comes down to man in a friggin’ curious way,
but when a man is marked for love, that love is here to stay.
There was coffee! The gas stove was working, and there was a big pot of coffee on it, and three cups set out. Harry poured one full. He sang in triumph:
And this I know because I’ve got a friggin’ curious sign;
for every time I wash my head, the water turns to wine!
And I gives it free to workin’ blokes to brighten up their lives,
so they don’t kick no dogs around, nor beat up on their wives.
He found a bowl of oranges, resisted temptation for a full ten seconds, then took one. He peeled it as he walked on through the kitchen to the back door, out into the orange groves behind. The Millers were natives. They’d know what was happening. And they had to be around somewhere.