Earthquake Terror (10 page)

At the crest of the hill, Mr. Palmer stopped. Fire!

Flames licked skyward as he gazed down at the town. He saw five separate fires in different parts of Beaverville.

The road down the hill into town was free of debris. Mr. Palmer ran toward the fires. At the bottom of the hill, a group of people milled in the street, watching one of the fires. Mr. Palmer couldn’t believe that they were just standing around watching, instead of trying to put the fire out.

“Get water!” he yelled, as he ran toward them. “Get the fire department!”

The group turned to him.

“There isn’t any water,” a woman said. “All the main water lines broke. We hauled river water in buckets for awhile but we weren’t nearly fast enough and we gave up. It was like trying to put it out by spitting.”

A man in a baseball cap added, “The fire department is just as helpless as we are. The gas line broke, too, and the gas is feeding the flames.”

“Half the buildings in town are on fire,” the woman said, “and the other half are knocked off their foundations.”

“Are there any emergency services?” Mr. Palmer asked.

“At the high school,” someone replied. “People whose homes were destroyed are staying there.”

“What about medical help?”

“That’s at the school, too. The hospital was evacuated.”

Mr. Palmer asked for and received directions to the high school. As he started off, a young man touched his shoulder.

“Anything I can do to help you?” the young man asked.

“My wife’s in our car, back near the bridge to Magpie Island. I think she has a broken ankle.”

“My name’s Kenny,” the young man said. “I’ve got a chain saw and a four-wheel-drive vehicle. Be glad to try to get through to her, if you want to go with me and help clear the road.”

“Yes,” Mr. Palmer said. “I’d be grateful for that. But first I need to alert the authorities that my children are alone on Magpie Island.”

“Are you sure?”

“We left them in our camper while I drove my wife to the hospital. After the earthquake hit and knocked the bridge out, we couldn’t go back after them. It will take a boat or a helicopter to get them off the island.”

“I heard on the radio a few minutes ago,” Kenny said, “that Magpie Island is gone.”

“Gone! How could it be gone?”

“The earthquake shifted the flow of the river and the island flooded over and disappeared.”

“No,” Mr. Palmer said. “No! Not Jonathan and Abby. Oh, please, no!”

“I’m sorry, Sir.” Kenny put his arm around Mr. Palmer’s shoulder. “We can go to the school and you can hear it for yourself, if you like.”

“I believe you.”

“Shall we go find your wife?”

Mr. Palmer started to follow Kenny, then stopped. “No. Not yet,” he said. “I have to let someone know that Jonathan and Abby are missing. There must be search planes or helicopters. How else would they know the island disappeared?”

“Not much chance of two kids surviving if the whole island’s gone,” Kenny said softly.

“Maybe they got off the island,” Mr. Palmer said. “Maybe they found a boat or something else that floats. Jonathan’s a strong swimmer and our dog was with him; maybe he and Moose got Abby to shore.”

As he spoke, he knew he was babbling. He saw the pity in Kenny’s eyes and knew the young man thought grief was making him grasp at impossibilities.

Maybe I am, he thought. Maybe there’s no hope that Jonathan and Abby survived. But I can’t give up without trying to find them.

Wearily, he walked toward the high school.

A
bby never made it to Kendra.

As they began “Twenty-three Raggedy Anns on the shelf” for the second time, Abby’s tree collided with the remains of an old fishing pier. The wooden pier, unused for a dozen years, jutted several hundred feet out from shore. Buoys warned boats to stay away.

The earthquake caused the pier to shift and sink so that it lay just below the surface of the river.

Abby’s tree floated between two buoys and hit the top of the last post on the pier.

The collision jarred Abby and sent her tree spinning sideways away from Jonathan’s. She dropped the leash and clutched her tree. “My boat hit something!” she cried.

“Hang on!” Jonathan yelled. “Put both arms around Charlotte and hang on.”

Jonathan put his right hand in the water and paddled hard, trying to turn his tree toward Abby. The current was too strong. Even though the tree turned slightly, it continued to float rapidly forward. Abby seemed to have stopped moving.

“Stay with me,” Abby called. “Hold my hand!”

“I can’t. But you can still hear me. We’ll be able to sing even better if we each hold tight to our own tree.” To prove it, Jonathan started singing again. “Twenty-three Raggedy Anns on the shelf; twenty-three Raggedy Anns.”

Although Abby kept singing, the sound of her voice grew faint. Jonathan realized that her tree was not floating as fast as his was. She had somehow been knocked out of the main current and was either drifting aimlessly or was floating toward shore.

He raised his head and looked back.

“Abby?” he called. “Where are you?”

“I’m here. Back here!”

Her voice seemed far behind him. Her tree must not be moving. Something had stopped her. When he looked toward the sound of her voice, he saw so much floating debris in that part of the river that it was difficult in the dim moonlight to pick out which dark shape in the water was Abby. Whatever had caused Abby’s tree to stop moving forward, had caused other flotsam to stop there, too.

Jonathan debated. Should he abandon his own tree and try to swim back to Abby? But the town of Kendra was still
ahead and with it the chance that someone would hear or see him.

There were no towns along this part of the river. Even if he and Abby got out of the current and made it to shore here, there would be no one to help them. And there was no way for Abby to walk miles to town.

It’s better, he decided, to try to get help as fast as possible, rather than to stay behind with Abby.

“Stay with Charlotte,” Jonathan shouted. “No matter what happens, stay on your tree.”

“Come back!” Abby cried, an edge of hysteria in her voice. “Stay with me.”

“I can’t. But I’ll be back to get you.”

“Where are you going?” she called.

I wish I knew, Jonathan thought. He yelled, “I’m going for help. I’ll be back for you as soon as I can. Keep singing! Sing to Charlotte.”

“Jonathan! Come back!”

“Sing, Abby. Sing the Raggedy song.”

“Don’t leave me. Come back! Please, Jonathan! I’m scared!”

You aren’t the only one, Jonathan thought, I’m more scared than I’ve ever been in my life.

She quit calling and began to sob. Her voice grew fainter as he moved away and her cries soon faded away to nothing. All Jonathan could hear now was the sound of the river, rushing toward the sea.

Wearily, he laid his cheek against Moose and tried not to cry.

Moose barked. Jonathan raised his head and looked. Moonlight glinted off the black water, making it look like liquid silver. A baby’s high chair floated past, its wooden tray tilted up, as if the baby had just been lifted out. Moose barked again, wagging his tail at the high chair.

“It’s okay, boy,” Jonathan said. “It’s only a high chair.” He wondered if Moose associated the high chair with Abby. She had used one until she was almost three. Did Moose remember that?

Shore seemed farther away than it had when he floated past Beaverville. He should have left Abby then, he thought; he should have tried to swim to shore, rather than staying with her. Now they were separated anyway and the farther he was from shore, the slimmer his chance of making it.

Even if he did make it, he would not be near a town, so there weren’t likely to be any people to help him. By the time the river passed Kendra, he might be even farther offshore; too far offshore to be heard, or seen.

He wondered where his parents were.

Jonathan shivered. His clothes and shoes were soaked and the cold river water continually splashed over his back as he clung to the tree trunk.

He pressed his cheek into the tree’s rough bark and closed his eyes to hold back the tears. What were his chances of survival if he managed to stay on the tree and ride it all the way to the Pacific Ocean? How long could he live without food or water? The sun would burn him mercilessly all day and the freezing water would chill him at night. And what about sharks?

No one would be searching for him at sea. Rescuers would take one look at where Magpie Island used to be and assume that Jonathan and Abby had perished there.

Maybe, he thought, I should try to swim to shore now. Maybe I shouldn’t wait until I pass Kendra. Once on shore, I could hike to town. Without Abby, I can walk as far as I have to.

What if I don’t make it to shore?

Was it better to die trying to save himself or should he lie here hoping someone else might see or hear him?

What about Moose? Could the dog swim that far? If Jonathan tried to make it, Moose would have to try, too.

“Good dog,” Jonathan said. A lump swelled his throat. “Can you make it, boy?” Jonathan whispered. “Can you swim to shore?” He reached forward and rubbed Moose’s neck.

Moose turned his head and whined. Jonathan recognized the noise as Moose’s hunger whine; the dog did it promptly at six every night unless Jonathan fed him before then.

I’m hungry, too, Jonathan realized. Moving slowly so as not to lose his balance, Jonathan reached over his shoulder and opened the backpack. He removed the remaining two sandwiches. He broke one in pieces and held the pieces where Moose could reach. The dog ate greedily but stayed in place.

Jonathan ate the second sandwich himself and then ate a few pieces of broken cookie. Chocolate, he knew, was not good for dogs so he didn’t offer Moose any of the cookie.

When he finished eating, he looked toward shore again. It was barely visible now, even though the half moon was
high in the sky. I’m drifting farther from land all the time, he thought. If I’m going to swim for shore, I must do it now.

He considered putting the leash on Moose, to be sure they stayed together, but decided against it. It wouldn’t be fair, he thought, to keep the dog tied to my wrist. Moose might make it to shore, even if I don’t. He buckled the leash around his own waist so he would have it later, on land.

He removed the backpack containing his mother’s shoe and dropped the pack into the river. Sorry, Mom.

He inhaled deeply three times, filling his lungs with oxygen and holding it before he exhaled. His baseball coach had taught him to do that just before his turn to bat, as a way to steady his nerves.

After inhaling the fourth time, he let go of the tree and rolled sideways into the river, blowing the air out his mouth as he dropped.

As soon as his head popped up, he called, “Come, boy! Come, Moose!”

Moose was already in the water. His head and the ridge of his back were visible; his tail floated behind him as he dog-paddled beside Jonathan.

Jonathan swam toward shore, trying to establish a kicking rhythm that would keep him moving but not exhaust him. He alternated between doing the crawl, which was fastest, and the breaststroke, which was slower but allowed him to see where he was going and to see what else was floating toward him.

Moose stayed at his side, swimming as fast as Jonathan but never any faster.

Once, Jonathan changed from crawl to breaststroke just in time to see a huge tree rushing toward him. Jonathan dove under the water, coming up on the other side of the tree. Moose dove, too. After that, Jonathan stayed with the breaststroke, changing to a dog paddle when he got tired.

He looked frequently to his right, to see if anything else was floating toward him, and glanced occasionally to his left, at Moose. Two more times, he had to dive beneath the surface to avoid being hit by floating trees or parts of trees.

After ten minutes of steady swimming, a huge stump swept past him, its roots extended like outstretched hands. Jonathan grabbed one of the roots and rode along for a few seconds, resting. It occurred to him that if his strength gave out before he reached shore, he could always hang on to a different tree or another stump or something else that was floating. One way or another, he would stay alive.

Determination gave him a fresh burst of energy. He let the stump roots slip out of his grasp, and began paddling toward shore again.

His legs and arms ached. He wondered if he should have taken off his shoes before he started to swim. His feet felt like blocks of cement when he kicked. He could still get his shoes off, if he wanted to, but he would need shoes when he got to shore. He was not used to going barefoot and he would doubtless have a long hike ahead of him, once he reached land.

Land. How far had he come? When he looked, it did not seem any closer than when he first rolled off his tree. The
swift current kept him going west; he could not tell if he was also moving north, toward shore.

Shoes won’t do me any good if I don’t make it to shore, he thought. Holding his breath, he quit kicking, reached down, and tried to untie one shoe. He sank as his cold fingers fumbled with the wet laces.