Lucifer's Hammer

Eileen put the Blazer into gear and started forward, slowly.

The Southern Pacific tracks took them most of the way to Porterville. The tracks and embankment rose gradually until what surrounded them was no longer sea, but land that looked as if it had recently risen from the depths: Atlantis returned. Still Eileen kept to the tracks, though her shoulders were shivering with the strain.

“No people on the tracks, and no stalled cars,” she said. “We’re avoiding those, aren’t we?” They hadn’t, completely; sometimes forlorn groups of refugees, usually in families, trudged along the right-of-way.

“I hate to leave them,” Eileen said. “But — which ones should we take? The first ones we see? Be selective? No matter what we do, we’d have the car filled and people on top and there’d still be more—”

“It’s all right,” Tim said. “We don’t have anyplace to go either.” But he sat brooding, feeling her mood. What right did they have to expect anyone to help them? They weren’t helping anyone themselves…

South and east of Porterville they rolled down a wet embankment to resume their trek on 190. Tim took over the driving, and Eileen lay in the reclined passenger seat, exhausted but unable to sleep.

The land looked recently drowned. Studying the broken buildings and fences and uprooted trees, Tim became certain that a flood had come from the direction they were traveling. There was mud everywhere, and Tim had many occasions to feel proud of his judgment. He didn’t think any other car in the world could have got them over some places they passed.

“Lake Success,” Eileen said. “There was a big lake up there, and the dam must have gone. The road goes right past it…”

“Yeah?”

“I’m wondering if there’s any road there,” she said. They went on, until they reached the junction that should have taken them up into the hills.

The land was mud everywhere, studded with cars in every possible attitude. There were bodies, but no living human beings. They were glad for the rain. It kept them from seeing very far into the muddy ditch to their left. The road became worse, washed out in places, covered with mud in others.

Eileen took over driving again, guessing where the road had been and hoping it was still there under the mud. The Blazer kept moving, but more slowly…

Then they saw the campfire. A half-dozen cars, some as good as the Blazer. Here were people of all sexes and ages, a gathering of the hopeless. Somehow they’d started a fire, and there was a pile of wood under a plastic shelter. The people stayed in the rain; wood was kept near the fire to dry.

Tim brought in the dry wood from the Blazer. No one spoke to him. The children stared at him with hopeless eyes. Finally one of the men said, “You won’t make it.”

Tim wordlessly eyed the mudslide ahead. There were tracks in it. If any car could get through…

“This isn’t the problem,” the man said. “We got past that. But up ahead there’s a bridge out.”

“So walk—”

“And a man with a rifle. They don’t talk. First shot was between my wife and myself. I got the impression the second would finish the job. Never even saw the rifleman.”

So that was it. End of the line. Tim sat beside the fire and began to laugh, softly at first, then in rising hysteria. Two days. Two? Yes. This was Friday, Drowned Muddy Fridae after Hot Fudge Tuesdae and the roads to high ground were gone and you couldn’t get to the Senator’s place. More men with guns. The world belonged to men with guns. Maybe the Senator was shooting. The image was fu

“It works” Tim said. “Tell your dream and kill it. It works!” He laughed again.

“Here.” Another man, big, with thick hairy forearms, used a handkerchief to snatch a tin can from the fire. He poured into a styrofoam cup, then looked regretful and took a flat pint bottle from his jacket pocket. He splashed in rum, then handed Tim the cup. “Drink that, and don’t lose the cup. And stop it. You’re scaring the kids.”

So what? But it was natural for Tim to feel ashamed. “Don’t make a scene.” How often had his mother told him that? And told his father that, and told everyone else…?

The laced coffee tasted good and warmed him. It didn’t help much, though. Eileen brought their remaining can of soup and offered it. They sat in silence, sharing what there was: the soup, instant coffee, and a bit of drowned rabbit broiled on a stick.

There was very little talking. Finally the others got up. “We’ll strike for north,” one man said. He gathered his family. “Anybody with me?”

“Sure.” Others joined. Tim felt relieved. They were going away, leaving him with Eileen. Should he go with them? For what? They hadn’t anyplace to go either.

The others got up and went to their cars, all but the big man who’d offered the coffee. He sat with his wife and two children. “You too, Brad?” the new leader asked.

“Car’s not working.” He waved toward a Lincoln parked near the mudslide. “Broken axle, I think.”

“Any gas in it?” the leader asked.

“Not much.”

“We’ll try anyway. If you don’t mind.”

The big man shrugged. The others siphoned no more than a pint of gasoline out of the Lincoln. Their cars were already crowded. There was absolutely no room for anyone else. The expedition leader paused. He looked at them as one looks at the dead. “That’s your plastic tarp. And your instant coffee,” he said. He said it wistfully, but when he got no answer, turned away. They drove off, downhill into the rain.

Now there were six by the fire. Tim and Eileen, and — “Name’s Brad Wagoner,” the big man said. “That’s Rosa and Eric, and Concepcion. Named the boy for my side of the family, girl for Rosa’s. Thought we’d keep that up if we had any more.” He seemed glad of someone to talk with.

“I’m Eileen, and that’s Tim. We’re — ” She stopped herself. “Of course we’re not really pleased to meet you. But I guess I should say it anyway. And we’re very grateful for the coffee.”

The children were very quiet. Rosa Wagoner hugged them and spoke to them in soft Spanish. They were very young, five or six, not more, and they clung to her. They had on yellow nylon windbreakers and te

“You’re stranded,” Tim said.

Wagoner nodded. He still didn’t say anything.

He’d make two of me, Tim thought. And he’s got a wife and two kids. We better get out of here before he breaks my neck and takes the Blazer. Tim felt afraid, and was ashamed because the Wagoners hadn’t said or done anything to deserve suspicion. Just that they were here…

“No place to go anyway,” Brad Wagoner said. “We’re from Bakersfield. Not much left of Bakersfield. I guess we should have struck up into the hills right off, but we thought we’d try to find some supplies in town. We just missed getting washed away when the dam went.” He eyed the steep hill above him. “If this rain would stop, maybe we could see some place to walk to. You got any plans?” He couldn’t disguise the plea in his voice.

“Not really.” Tim stared into the dying fire. “I thought I knew somebody up there. Politician I gave a lot of money to. Senator Jellison.” There. That finished it for sure. And now what would they do?

“Jellison,” Wagoner mused. “I voted for him. Think that would count? Are you still going to try to get up there?”

“It’s all I can think of.” Tim’s voice held no hope at all.

“What will you do?” Eileen asked. Her eyes kept straying to the children.

Wagoner shrugged. “Find some place and start over, I guess.” He laughed. “I built high-rise apartments. Made a lot of money at it, but — I didn’t get as good a car as yours.”

“You’d be surprised what that one cost me,” Tim said.

The fire died away. It was time. Eileen went to the Blazer. Tim followed. Brad Wagoner sat with his wife and children.