Shock Wave Read online

  Fallout, he said, decays incredibly fast. In the first seven hours after the blast it would give up a massive 90% of its radiation. Seven times longer, by the forty ninth hour, and it would have expended 90% of what it had left, and by the three hundred thirty fourth hour – seven times longer than that – another 90% would have been spent. The upshot was that just a couple days after a nuclear blast the fallout would only be one hundredth as radioactive as it had been when it first touched the ground. A couple of weeks later and it would only have a thousandth of its original destructive power.

  Surviving the horrors of nuclear fallout, Ramos said, was as simple as finding somewhere as isolated from the outside as possible and waiting it out for as long as your supplies lasted. The longer the better, but when it came down to it the worst of the danger would have passed by the end of a good game of Monopoly.

  At first Karen hadn’t believed Ramos when he said this. She’d been raised on dire warnings of the Cold War suddenly turning hot, on news reports of the Chernobyl meltdown and the sterile, irradiated ruins of Pripyat. She’d always believed that cities hit by nuclear disasters and attacks would crackle with radiation for generations, sealed off and avoided, but Ramos assured her that the reality was nothing like that. After all, even Hiroshima had been rebuilt after the war, and today it was home to over a million people.

  None of that helped Karen now, though, as she pushed herself to run faster between the rows of abandoned cars. She knew Ramos had only been trying to comfort her with meaningless information and half truths.

  The only thing that really mattered was that right now the fallout was still at its most deadly, enough to kill with just minutes of exposure. Ramos had done his best to distract her with scientific jargon rather than tell her flat out whether or not she’d make it back alive, but when she’d demanded he give it to her straight he’d only said “If you can keep your exposure to below two hundred Roentgens you should be OK.”

  Karen had no idea what a Roentgen was, but from the nervous, brittle edge to Ramos’ voice she guessed that she didn’t want to know.

  Up ahead she finally caught sight of the spinning fans in the roof of the tunnel, and beside them the thick black power cable running down the wall to the junction box. It had been three minutes since she’d stepped through the door. Another two to shut off the power, then one more to run back to safety. She could be home and dry in six minutes total.

  Would it be enough?

  As she neared the junction box Karen pulled her fire ax from a deep inner pocket of her jacket, scanning the steel case for the best place to break open the door, but when she drew beside it and reached out for the handle she was surprised to find that it wasn’t locked. So much for security, she thought, swinging the door open to reveal a confusing mass of thick cables that vanished into the wall behind it.

  But no switches. She’d expected to find something obvious, maybe a circuit breaker that could be tripped to cut off the power, or just a big red button that would shut everything down with a satisfying slap, but there was nothing like that. There was only the spaghetti mess of cables, all of them vanishing into the wall behind the junction box.

  She reached out and tugged hard on an inch thick cable, hoping it might break away from the box, but all that happened was the insulated sheath slid a little over the wires beneath. She pulled harder, but she could already tell it wouldn’t give. This, she realized with a sinking feeling, wasn’t really a junction box. It was just a case designed to tidy the cables where they fed into the wall.

  She raised the radio. “Doc,” she whispered, fear gripping tight at her throat, “I think we have a problem here. I can’t see any way to shut off the power.”

  A long moment of silence passed, broken only by hissing static from the radio, but no response came.

  “Doc? Doc, do you hear me? I need your help!”

  More silence. Now the panic really began to take hold. Karen felt her heart pound in her chest as she stared at the cables hanging from the wall. Above her she could hear the unrelenting spin of the fans, and she knew that with every lazy rotation they were pushing another dose of deadly fallout to her daughter below.

  Whoomph.

  There was another one. Another breath.

  Whoomph.

  Another step closer to death.

  “Doc!” She was almost yelling now, her voice trembling as fear and frustration brought tears to her eyes, but still the only response was a maddening static hiss.

  She shoved the radio back into her pocket, frustrated, and after a deep, calming breath she finally knew what she had to do. Even if Ramos could get through to her she knew there was nothing he could do to help. It was up to her to deal with this, and every moment those fans turned was another moment their shelter became less safe. Another moment Emily would be exposed to the radiation that would eventually kill her.

  Karen felt the weight of the ax in her hands. It was small, more a hatchet than a true ax, but it felt like there was enough weight in its head to deliver a solid blow. She looked down at the steel handle, at the thick rubberized grip that covered it. Maybe it would be enough to protect her from the shock, or maybe it wouldn’t, but there was only one way to find out. She couldn’t afford to wait any longer.

  She whispered a prayer as she drew the ax over her shoulder like a baseball bat, carefully sighting the thickest cable running from the fans into the back of the box, and as she swung her arms she gritted her teeth and let out a yelp.

  The blade severed the live cable on the first strike, sending a shower of sparks raining out across the road. Karen jumped back to escape the blinding fountain, stumbling in her oversized boots and falling to the ground. She landed hard on her ass, dazed and terrified, and scrambled back on her elbows and heels as the sparks showered the ground at her feet.

  On the wall above her one end of the severed cable hung loose, the other end arcing a current into a steel box that now glowed blindingly white, forcing her to look away as she shuffled backwards. The ax was still gripped tight in her hands, its edge blackened and scored but otherwise intact, and as far as she could tell she was still in one piece. Her heart was racing and she couldn’t catch her breath, but she didn’t feel as if she’d taken a jolt from the cable.

  Karen’s feet cleared the torrent of sparks, and finally she felt safe enough to stop scrambling. She had her back up against the door of a city bus a full lane away from the spitting cables, and as the sharp crackling of the live wire began to die down she finally noticed another sound.

  The steady woomph of the enormous fans above her seemed to be slowing.

  They were spinning to a stop.

  She pulled herself to her feet, staring at the blades of the fans as they slowed, and with a cheer of celebration she grabbed the radio and yelled. “Doc, it worked! They’re stopping! They’re stopping!” She didn’t care if he couldn’t hear her. She just needed to say it out loud.

  Even as she spoke she began to limp back towards the stairwell on legs that trembled like jello, clutching the radio in one hand and the ax in the other. Her heart was still racing and she felt like she wanted to vomit from the strain, but it didn’t matter now. In just a couple of minutes she’d be back with Emily, safe and sound.

  She was halfway back towards the door when the radio finally broke its long silence. The set crackled in her hand. “… coming. I can’t…” Ramos’ voice barely made it through the interference.

  Karen clicked transmit. “What’s that, Doc? I didn’t catch what you said.”

  The radio hissed and crackled again. “… He’s… break through… can’t hold…”

  Karen scowled at the radio, breaking into an awkward, lop-sided jog. Maybe the signal would improve as she got closer to the control room. “Doc,” she panted, already struggling for breath and fighting a stitch, “I still can’t hear you. What’s wrong?”

  Now the signal was more crackle than speech. She could barely pick out a single word. It seemed as if Ramos was tr
ying to tell her something about a door, but for the life of her she couldn’t make sense of anything beyond the interference.

  All she knew was that he sounded afraid.

  It was only when Karen worked her way across the lanes and back towards the wall of the tunnel that she noticed what was wrong, and her blood turned to ice in her veins as she saw it.

  The door to the staircase was hanging wide open.

  She’d closed that door. She was certain of it. She remembered pushing it closed until she heard the click, because she didn’t want to contaminate the staircase any more than she already had.

  She stopped in her tracks, ducking down behind the car beside her, her heartbeat thumping in her ears.

  “Doc,” she whispered into the radio, suddenly aware of how far her voice carried in the tunnel, “what’s happening? Is there someone else down there?”

  She gripped the ax handle tighter as she waited for a response, her eyes fixed on the open door, and when the crackle returned she jumped so quickly she almost dropped the ax.

  Now there were no words. Even when the crackle faded there was no speech, just… Karen couldn’t quite make it out. Heavy breathing? A loud bang?

  The next sounds she recognized instantly. They reached down into the depths of her soul and squeezed.

  It was Emily’s scream.

  Followed by a gunshot.

  Followed by silence.

  ΅

  CHAPTER THREE

  BOTTOM SHELF VODKA

  DESPITE THE CHILL in the air Jack was drenched in sweat by the time he’d dragged the bodies to the edge of the forest. It mingled with the dirt and blood that clung to his skin, stinging his red raw eyes as he panted with exertion.

  The woman had been easy enough to carry. She’d died close to the tree line, and she didn’t weigh all that much, but Warren was a different story. Somehow the old man seemed to have gained weight in death, and it was even more of an effort to drag his bulk across the gas station forecourt than it had been to carry him through the forest.

  Jack knew the reason. It was hope. Hope that he might survive had made Warren lighter, but now he was being carried to the grave his every pound weighed heavy on Jack's shoulders. By the time he finally set the old man down beside the body of the woman he barely had the energy to gather the rocks he’d need to cover them.

  He knew he really didn’t have the time to spare for this little ritual. He knew he should be sprinting towards Emily as fast as his legs would carry him, but… well, it just didn’t feel right to leave these people where they’d fallen. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving their bodies out in the open to be scavenged by wildlife. He owed them what little dignity he could offer, even if it cost his time he didn’t have.

  Hell, he owed Warren his life. Without his help Jack knew he would have died in Seattle. He would have been stranded at the airfield, and even if he’d managed to find a working car he’d have been snarled up in the traffic trying to escape the city. He’d seen those endless tailbacks jamming up the roads. God knows how he would have escaped ahead of the nuke that must surely have hit by now.

  As for the woman, her name was Janice. Jack had gone looking for a shovel in the gas station, hoping to be able to bury the bodies, but instead he’d found a stack of old bills and personal letters behind the counter.

  She was Janice Fremantle of Tiller, Oregon. She had a long overdue phone bill, a subscription to a monthly woodworking magazine, a daughter up in Portland and a grandson on the way. He’d seen the sonogram pinned up on the wall behind the counter, and he just knew Janice had put it there in the hope that customers might ask about it. He knew that her heart must have damn near burst with joy as she told them about the little boy she’d soon hold in her arms.

  And it was Jack’s fault that little boy would have to grow up without his grandma.

  He’d tried to lie to himself. He’d tried to convince himself that it was Janice’s fault for pulling the shotgun. If she’d just stayed calm she’d still be alive and well, but no matter how many times he repeated it as he gathered rocks to cover the bodies he couldn’t convince himself.

  Of course she’d pulled a gun. He’d limped up to her rural gas station in the middle of the night, miles from anywhere and without a car, his suit torn and bloodied, rambling on about some skydiving accident and an injured friend. Hell, if Jack had found himself in her position he’d have pulled the trigger without a second thought. Without a first thought.

  Shame gnawed at him as he placed the stones carefully over the bodies, and as Janice slowly vanished from sight Jack played the last hour in his head over and over again, imagining how tragedy could have been averted if he’d just been thinking more clearly. He wished he’d taken Warren’s gun from his holster. He wished he hadn’t left him alone, delirious and confused. He wished he’d done a million things differently if it meant this woman could still be breathing. If it meant Warren might still be alive. If it meant he didn’t have to face the road ahead alone.

  When the bodies were finally covered Jack crouched down beside the cairns and took a moment to say a prayer, but he didn’t really know how to do it. He hadn’t prayed in years. He didn’t know the right words, and what began as a prayer quickly turned into an apology. He apologized for what he’d done, for who he was, for everyone he’d failed, until eventually it felt like there were no more words left to say.

  When it was over he wiped his eyes on his sleeve and trudged back into the gas station, Boomer trailing disconsolately beside him, and he rifled through Janice’s mail until he found a blank piece of paper and a pen.

  He explained what had happened in as much detail as he could squeeze onto the page. He apologized to Warren’s sons, and to Janice’s daughter and unborn grandson, and he signed off with his name, address and phone number, for what little good it would do. The apartment probably didn’t even exist any more, but the address might help one of the family members track him down if they wanted to press charges. He’d take the blame, gladly. He wouldn’t shirk responsibility. He knew better than most that grieving families needed somewhere to go with their anger, and he’d happily be the punching bag.

  When the last word had been written he propped the note against the register. Maybe the police would find it when this was all over.

  The store was dark, barely lit by the moonlight creeping through the shattered window, but there was just enough illumination for Jack to make out what was on the shelves. He whispered another apology – to both God and Janice – as he moved through the store stuffing his pockets with bags of peanuts, strips of jerky and a couple of water bottles. When he finally reached the counter he paused, staring at what he found sitting on a shelf beneath it.

  He knew he shouldn’t. He knew he didn’t have the time for this, but almost as if it were a simple reflex he watched his hand reach down and pull out the glass bottle tucked in beside a stack of ledgers. Even as he wrapped his hand around the neck he realized he was already running the justifications through his head, testing them out to find the one that would best temper the shame.

  You’ve earned this, Jack.

  If there was ever a day you needed a drink, it’s today.

  It’s medicinal. You’ll be able to reach Emily faster if you dull the pain in your body.

  Come on, everyone drinks at a wake. Warren would have wanted you to take a drink for him.

  The last one was the winner.

  It was too dark to read the label on the bottle, but as soon as he spun off the cap he got an dizzying whiff of the contents. Some kind of vodka, bottom shelf by the harsh odor. It smelled like the kind of booze designed to be drowned in Coke and numbed with ice, for people who didn’t care for the taste but didn’t want to remember their name come midnight.

  That suited Jack just fine. He’d never been picky when it came to alcohol. After the last few hours he’d knock back gasoline if someone offered it in a shot glass.

  He lowered himself to a rickety wooden stool behind t
he counter, his fist wrapped tight around the neck of the bottle, and he sighed as he realized he’d already made his peace with what was about to happen. Jack was a drunk, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d been here a thousand times before, and he knew that once he’d taken that first sip he wouldn’t stop until he could see clear daylight through the bottom.

  He brought the bottle to his lips and tipped it back, bracing himself for the rough burn of cheap vodka at the back of his throat. The first belt was always the roughest.

  And then he stopped. He lowered the bottle and looked towards the doorway, his lips wet but his throat dry.

  Boomer was standing framed in the moonlight, her head hanging low. She padded slowly to his side, and when she finally reached him she stopped, looked up and let out a whine so mournful that Jack felt tears prick at his eyes.

  “You miss him, don’t you?” he asked, setting the bottle on the counter and reaching down to scratch Boomer behind the ears.

  The dog whined again, resting her head in Jack’s lap.

  “Yeah, me too, buddy.”

  He reached into a pocket for a bag of nuts, and as he tore open the foil Boomer began to perk up. She raised her head and snuffled at the bag, and when Jack pulled out a handful she attacked them with gusto, her sadness at losing her friend forgotten for the moment.

  “You like those, do you?” he asked, tossing a nut into his mouth. Boomer licked her chops and gazed longingly at the bag, panting as Jack shook out another handful. As soon as he opened his palm she dove in, licking the salt from his fingers before turning her attention back to the bag.

  “Sorry, that’s it,” Jack shrugged, shaking the empty bag upside down. “You cleaned me out.”

  Boomer whined, tilting her head to one side.

  Jack pulled out his phone and called up the compass app, his greasy fingers smearing the screen. “I’ll tell you what, though,” he said, peering at the screen until he figured out which way was south, “if you want to come with me I’ve got a few more bags.” He pulled one from his pocket and shook it. “What do you say? You wanna stay here, or do you still wanna come with me and meet my little girl?”