Richter 10

  “I had to get away from the madhouse for a few minutes.” he said. “I needed some time alone.”

  “If you’d take a couple of dorph—”

  “Why are you looking for me?”

  She moved close. “They’ve come for Crane,” she said, her voice quavering. “They’re arresting him.”

  “Calm down,” he said, hands reaching out to take her arms. “We knew this would happen. Everything’s being done that can be done.”

  “I’m scared, Dan. The crowd’s ugly, and the—”

  “We’ve got escape routes. Don’t worry. Come on, let’s go give Crane some moral support.”

  They went out into the madness of the soybean farm. A man named Jimmy Earl had donated this ten-thousand-acre farm, south of Memphis in Capleville, to Crane for use as a refugee center. His motivation wasn’t altruistic; he was making a viddy about Crane and his prediction from the inside. But none of them had anticipated the reaction of the public. Above, hundreds of helos swarmed like mosquitos through clouds that ran continuous loops of a speech by President Gideon condemning Crane.

  Angry over the debacle of the October folly and whipped into near frenzy by the government and the teev schmoozers, people were descending on Jimmy Earl’s farm like a locust plague. Thousands of people had shown up in the last two days to jeer and demand Crane’s head. Electrified fences had been hurriedly erected around the tent city, and Whetstone’s people, instead of being able to help the refugees, were forced to form security details around the perimeter.

  Newcombe pulled his goggles over his eyes. They moved through the barnyard and into the tent city just as the front gates opened and the police cruiser slid in, display lights strobing.

  “The command post?” Dan asked. Several members of the crowd rushed in before the gates closed, security massing to beat them back.

  “Yeah… giving interviews up to the end.”

  “They taking Whetstone, too?”

  “Both ‘perpetrators,’” she said sarcastically. “By the way, other seismic stations around the world are beginning to pick up our foreshocks. I think some minds are changing.”

  “Too late,” he said. “Nobody’s going anywhere, not with the President on the teev calling us everything but child molesters.”

  “You’re tense.”

  “Yeah, I’m tense. I’ve been going over the Memphis EQ-ecogram and I’m still afraid I haven’t paid enough attention to the river. It’s possible to get in a range with a river that changes course, but my calcs were never designed to deal with a situation like the Mississippi. It needs more refinement.”

  “Does Crane know you’re still worried?”

  “Yeah. He says he trusts me. I’ve got to work more on this type of situation.”

  The rows of tents were empty except for volunteer workers. Not one person had accepted the offer of help, not yet. As they reached the centrally located command tent, the cruiser, lights still flashing, turned into the row, churning dust behind.

  Newcombe jerked his goggles up as he entered the tent. Other teevs filled the tent sides, some showing EQ-ecograms of metropolitan centers that would be affected by the quake. Still others showed emergency EQ supply lists, another a list of safe evac locations.

  Crane and Whetstone stood together at the front of the room, before an alarming seismogram display showing an almost constantly increasing amplitude on all crests. A crowd of ten camheads was around them, private broadcasters working around the government’s jam of the airwaves. Jimmy Earl, of course, stood in the center of it all, making his viddy.

  Crane was speaking. “…in Memphis, because Memphis is going to take the brunt of the quake. We have an observation scale that’s been used for nearly a hundred years called the Mercalli Intensity Scale. I’m predicting Memphis to fall within the range of a Mercalli XII, Damage Total. Practically all buildings damaged greatly or destroyed. Waves seen on ground surface. Lines of sight and level distorted. Objects will be thrown into the air. Please, anyone in Memphis who’s listening right now: Get out of the city. Come south to Capleville. We can help you here.”

  “Crane,” Newcombe called. “They’re here.”

  Crane frowned and looked at Whetstone. The two shook hands and walked toward the flap just as the police entered.

  “You’re in charge now,” Crane told Newcombe. “I’ll get back here as soon as I can.”

  “I don’t trust the river,” Newcombe replied. “Can’t they—”

  “No,” Crane interrupted. “It’s too late. We’ll have to take our chances.”

  “I’m Chief Hoskins of the Memphis PD,” the man cuffing Whetstone said, then nodded to his partner. “This here is Mr. Lyle Withington, the mayor of our fair city. I have a warrant for the arrest of Lewis Crane and Harry Whetstone.”

  “It will give me great pleasure, sir,” the mayor said to Crane, “to watch you being put away where you can do no more harm.”

  “Do you live outside of the city, Mr. Mayor?” Crane asked as they put the cuffs on him.

  “Why, no… I have a house right in—”

  “Then get your family out before they’re hurt.”

  “Now, really… sir.”

  “Is there a Jimmy Earl here?” Chief Hoskins called.

  “Right here!” Jimmy, a big country boy with rosy cheeks and a fatback smile that never left his face, elbowed his way to them. Inherited money, Newcombe thought.

  “You can come along, too,” the Chief said. “The mayor’s given you permission to videotape in the cell.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Lyle,” Earl said, pumping the man’s hand.

  Crane turned to the other camheads. “People of Memphis,” he said as Hoskins led him to the door, “go to your main power boxes and shut down the focus. If you have anything that runs on natural gas, cut the valve at the source. Do it now.”

  They moved through the tent, Newcombe following, pulling his goggles back on with the rest of them as they got out in the sun, the crowds jeering loudly when Crane was spotted.

  “Chief Hoskins,” Newcombe said, pointing to the crowds, “can’t you disperse those people? They’re trespassing on private property.”

  “No!” Crane said as they shoved him into the car. “They’re safe here and they’ll be able to help after the quake.”

  Lanie leaned through the window to give Crane a long kiss as the cams pulled in tight, Newcombe feeling a flush of rage that he fought down.

  She stepped back, Crane sticking his head out the door and talking into the lenses of the cameras held by the camheads. “Take heavy objects off your shelves,” he called. “Take down glass and chandeliers. Get flammable materials out of your home. Now! Right away!”

  Hoskins slid behind the wheel as Whetstone and an excited Jimmy Earl climbed in back with Crane.

  Mayor Withington stared hard at Newcombe. “I’d advise you to pack up your belongings and get out of here,” he said. “There’s not a cop in Tennessee who’ll protect you from those people out there.”

  “You’ll be blessing us for being here before the day’s out, Mayor,” Newcombe said, turning from the man and walking back into the tent, Lanie on his heels. He padded onto the P fiber. “Burt… Burt, are you there?”

  “Yeah, Doc Dan.”

  “You keeping track of that lawyer Crane dragged down here from Memphis?”

  “Yeah… he’s right here.”

  “Crane’s been arrested. Give the lawyer his retainer from the cash box. Tell him to go into town tomorrow and work the bail—that’s if the jail’s still standing tomorrow.”

  “Got it.”

  “What the hell?” Lanie said. Dan blanked Hill and turned to her. She was watching the screens. Africks and Hispanics were pouring out of the city’s sewer system, firing guns into the air. They were hotwiring cars on the streets and driving off. Cars were bumper-to-bumper on State Highway 51, Elvis Presley Boulevard.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Lanie asked.

  “The start of the revo
lution,” Newcombe said, his mind screaming, And I did it!

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “3:45,” he said without looking. “We’ve got less than two hours.”

  The Memphis city jail was part of the new law enforcement complex built on the old station house at 201 Poplar Street in the aging section of town, five miles from the Mississippi River and down the street from U China Tennessee State and the tree-lined splendor of Audubon Park. Of course, the park’s trees had mostly died. The city fathers undertook a campaign years before of filling the dead branches with artificial leaves so that the city’s ambience could remain intact. And they constantly reminded everyone that it was beautiful winter or summer.

  They took Crane and Whetstone into the station amidst confusion. The War Zone had just exploded from its nest and flowed into the city proper, the entire force mobilized to fight. But the Zoners appeared not to want to fight—only to flee.

  Dozens of Muslims were being dragged into the station, all demanding they be given the right to leave the region. Crane was thrilled that somebody was listening to him.

  By the time they were booked and thrown into the tank—the huge holding cell that was filled to capacity with angry Zoners yelling for freedom—it was 4:00 P.M. When the tank was filled to capacity, people were jammed into other cells, then the halls, the whole block being locked down tight.

  And during the entire procedure, Crane had never stopped talking, never stopped speaking into Jimmy Earl’s camera, rigged not just for recording, but also for broadcast.

  “Time is running short,” he said. “The people in here with me are from the War Zone. They are trying to escape the disaster.

  “You must listen carefully to me if you want to save your lives. It’s too late, I fear, for you to escape if you haven’t already. So, get shoes on. Wear heavy clothing and pack a bag. Take dry goods, canned goods. Fill water bottles. Fresh water will be the thing you most need in the hours to come. Your biggest problem right now, though, is your home. Your home is full of death—flying glass will kill you; objects hanging on your walls or sitting on your mantels are deadly projectiles; chimneys will crush you; your water pipes are explosives; the roof of your own home could fall and bury you. Bricks are bombs; splinters are swords. Get out of your house.

  “There are dead trees everywhere. Avoid them. Stay off the roads. Look for open ground. Remember, emergency services are set up in Capleville. If you can see the EQ-eco on your region, gravitate toward the less dangerous areas. There will be aftershocks, several hundred of them in the next few days, so keep moving toward the safe areas.

  “Fresh water… fresh water. Please… fill bottles now. There’s not much—”

  He heard it then, the low rumbling roar coming from beneath them. It suddenly got deathly quiet in the cell block as the noise increased.

  “It’s here,” Crane said. “It’s here! Out of your homes! Now! Now!”

  The roar was upon them, the cell floor buckling, throwing them all to the floor as the sidewalks, streets, and lawns outside began exploding.

  Jimmy Earl screamed and grabbed the bars for support. The entire line of bars fell outward, on top of the men in the halls as the building shook, plaster dust raining down on them. The lights went out.

  “Stoney!” Crane shouted. The floor rolled and pitched like a ship on stormy seas. The wail of human beings joined the sickening roar in a stentorian cry of despair. “Stoney!”

  “C-Crane!” came the pained response. “Here… here!”

  Crane cursed the cops for putting too many people in the holding tank. He crawled through the writhing mass of flesh on the rocking floor. Pieces of the ceiling were falling all around. He was alert, not scared. Death would toy with him for a long time before taking him.

  “Crane!”

  He found Whetstone in the corner of the cell, his face bleeding so much his white hair was bright red. His arm was broken, maybe his shoulder. Pieces of ceiling had crushed his rib cage.

  “Your legs!” Crane screamed against the roar that seemed to go on forever, though he knew only half a minute had passed. “Can you stand?”

  “Oh, God… Crane! The pain!”

  “Can you use your legs?”

  “I… I think so….”

  “Then hang on.” Crane threw himself over Stoney, covering the man’s body as more of the ceiling fell in. But the rocking was less, the sound more distant. The first shock had passed.

  He struggled to his feet; others did the same. He dragged Stoney while screaming, “Get out! Get out now! There’ll be more shocks.”

  Huge holes were gouged through the walls. The prisoners straggled toward the light coming in from outside, Crane’s wristpad was bleeping. He kept hold of Stoney and opened the fiber with his nose. “What?”

  “C-Crane?” It was Lanie. “Are you all right?”

  “Barely,” he said. “It’s a mess here. I’m trying to get out of the jail now. What’s it look like?”

  “All we can see is smoke on the helo views,” she said. “Nothing else. Smoke.”

  “It’ll clear. I’ve got to go. I’ll get back with you. Tell Newcombe we cut it a little too close.”

  He blanked and kept moving. It was difficult not to trip. Bodies littered the floor.

  They made it into the middle of the hallway, jammed with people piling up in front of a hole in the wall. “We’ve got a safe exit,” he called to the crowd. “Nothing to worry about. We’re all decent people. Help one another through. We’re all right. We’ll stay all right.”

  Jimmy Earl caught up with him just before he got through the hole, the man still framing CD, still making his “movie.” He helped get through the hole and out with Whetstone.

  “Hang in there, you bastard,” Crane said to Whetstone, who was moaning. Crane was afraid for his friend, whose breathing was ragged. “I owe you three billion bucks, Stoney. Don’t conk out on me.”

  They got onto Poplar, a few cops walking around in a daze, their entire station house, all ten stories of it, collapsing, dust rising from the debris, the air tasting dirty.

  Smoke rolled through the area. A haze of smoke, fires and dust burned their eyes. As near as Crane could see, Memphis was gone. The elevated roadways had crumpled like paper, the hospital that had blocked his view on the drive in simply wasn’t there anymore. He couldn’t see the fairgrounds, the smoke was too thick. What was left of the university was burning out of control. The streets, the sidewalks, the lawns had buckled under the Slip, then cracked, opening huge fissures all around them. There were geysers of city water shooting high into the air from broken mains.

  An aftershock hit then, everyone going to the ground again as a hydrant exploded and shot a hundred feet into the air.

  There was a roaring sound that Crane couldn’t identify. He and Jimmy Earl lay Whetstone gently on the ground and went to investigate.

  They carefully picked their way across the broken street, moving toward the west and the impenetrable smoke that blocked their view. They hadn’t walked fifty feet into the smoke, when Crane realized it wasn’t smoke at all, but a fine mist, a spray, like frothy drizzle.

  “Oh, my God,” Jimmy Earl said.

  They were standing on the bank of the Mississippi River, looking out over a raging torrent that used to be Memphis, Tennessee. The skeletons of dead buildings poked through the raging waters, bodies and homes floating past. Memphis had been a city of a million people. Now it was river bottom. A little farther upstream, where the fairgrounds had stood, was a sight magnificent in its beautiful, deadly symmetry. A waterfall a hundred feet high now occupied what had been downtown Memphis and as they watched in amazement, the incredible span of the Memphis-Arkansas bridge floated over the edge of the falls to crash, in slow motion, into the river below.

  It was beyond imagination—even Crane’s.

  Jimmy Earl fell to his knees and began retching into the river. “No time for that now,” Crane said, pulling him up by the collar. “You wanted
this and now you’re going to get it all on tape.”

  “Time,” he said to his pad, 4:39 coming through the aural.

  He dragged Jimmy Earl back to Whetstone, the man pale, but conscious. He hunkered down.

  “You’re something, Crane,” Whetstone said weakly. “We walked into a lulu, didn’t we?”

  “Save it,” Crane replied. “You’ll need your strength. Dammit, we’ve still got work to do on the globe. The quake hit fifty-eight minutes early.”

  “That’s not so bad in f-five billion years.”

  “Yeah,” Crane said, preoccupied. He looked up at Jimmy Earl. “Anyone who can still hear me right now, you need to remember two things. Get away from anything that can fall on you and try to administer first aid to those who need it. Worry about your losses later.”

  Heedless of the sun, he pulled off his shirt and slid it under Whetstone. “This is going to hurt,” he said, knotting the shirt over the man’s ribs and jerking it tight. Whetstone grimaced.

  Crane addressed the cam. “People are going to be in shock. They’re going to be wandering around dazed. Take these people under your wing, protect them.” He yanked on Stoney’s shoulder, slipping the ball joint back into place, and Whetstone sighed with relief.

  Screams came from the remaining cell blocks, the ones on the higher levels. Men were hanging out of windows and rents in the walls. “You men!” Crane called to the Zoners who were standing, watching the end of the world. “Grab debris, steel and concrete. Start piling it up securely against the side of the block. Make a platform to bring those people down!”

  He pulled off Whetstone’s belt, doubled it over and jammed it into the man’s mouth. Without a word, he jerked hard on the elbow, working the broken bone. Stoney bit down hard on the belt, blanched and passed out.

  Jimmy Earl stood before him, recording it all, tears streaming down his face. “Just keep doing what you’re doing,” Crane said softly. “This is important.”

  “I-I never t-thought—”

  “Not now!” Crane said sternly as he checked the gash on Whetstone’s head.