Earthquake Terror (9 page)

Jonathan realized the trees and branches and other debris were floating toward the setting sun.

Once again, Jonathan pictured Magpie Island on a map but this time he saw it in context with its surroundings. He saw the Tuscan River, not only as it flowed around the island, but as it continued its course due west to the Pacific Ocean.

If he had guessed correctly that the earthquake had created a natural dam which caused the stream across the island to
overflow, it meant that he and Abby were not in the small section of river that flowed into the lake where they had played sink-the-ships. They were in the Tuscan itself, the wide, deep river that flowed past Beaverville and Kendra, the two small towns that stood between the island and the coast.

Maybe this is good, Jonathan thought. If we can stay on our trees while we float past the towns, surely someone will spot us from shore.

“I have to go potty,” Abby said.

“Go in your pants.”

“What?”
Astonishment made her voice shrill.

“You heard me,” Jonathan said. “We can’t leave our boats. And even if we could, there isn’t any bathroom. If you need to go, you’ll have to go where you are.”

“You want me to wet my pants?”

“They’re wet anyway, from the river.”

Abby was quiet.

In spite of his growing fear, Jonathan smiled. No one had ever suggested such outrageous behavior before and he knew Abby was considering whether or not to take his advice.

Dusk was brief; darkness settled quickly over the island. Their predicament seemed worse, somehow, in the dark. More dangerous. They couldn’t be easily seen now, either from shore or from the air.

“I did it.” Abby’s voice was low. “Don’t tell Mommy.”

“Mommy won’t care,” Jonathan said.

“It feels warm.”

Moose shifted, his feet slipping on the wet tree.

“Easy, boy,” Jonathan said. “Lie still.”

“I want to go home,” Abby said. “I don’t like my boat.”

“I want to go home, too, but there isn’t any way to do that until Mom and Dad send someone to get us.”

“I don’t like all this water.” She sounded scared. “It’s worse than the pool.”

Jonathan wondered if she had just realized what was happening. “I don’t like it, either,” he said, “but our boats will keep us safe.”

Abby began to cry.

I have to keep her calm, Jonathan thought. If she panics, she’ll forget to hold on.

Jonathan started to sing again. “Itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the waterspout.”

Abby listened for a moment and then joined in.

If we get out of this alive, Jonathan thought, I will never again sing about itsy-bitsy spider.

His hand ached from trying to hold on to Abby’s tree. In the dark, he couldn’t tell how deep the water was but they were moving steadily now. Faster than before. There was more space between their trees and the other trees that were floating, as if the river had widened, making room for its passengers.

The songs were the only way to keep Abby from crying so, while his own fear rose as fast as the water, Jonathan continued to sing.

“Out came the sun and dried up all the rain . . .”

A larger tree slammed into the root end of Jonathan’s tree, jolting him sideways. Moose splashed into the river.

Jonathan let go of Abby’s tree and grabbed his own to keep from falling off. Moose swam beside the tree. He put one paw up, trying to climb back on, but with no ground under his hind legs to push against, he couldn’t make it.

Jonathan leaned into the water, put his arm under Moose’s chest and lifted. Moose scrambled back on to the tree.

The tree bobbed and jerked. Jonathan clung to it until it stabilized.

When he reached for Abby’s tree, he couldn’t find it.

“Hold out your hand,” he cried. “This way.” He groped toward her in the dark, splashing the surface of the water. He could make out her shape; she was drifting away from him. He leaned toward her until he nearly rolled into the water. He could not reach her.

He unsnapped Moose’s leash and, holding the handle in his right hand, flung the clasp toward Abby, as if he were flyfishing.

“Grab the leash,” he called. “It’s in the water. Find it and hold on.”

“I can’t find it!”

The clasp sank. Jonathan pulled it back and tried again, flinging the clasp toward Abby’s tree. That time, she grabbed it.

“Hang on to the leash,” Jonathan said. “It will keep us together.”

“I’ll try.”

It was easier to hold the leash than it had been to try to
hold on to her tree. Maybe, he thought, this will work better. He tugged on the leash, trying to move the trees closer together.

“You’re pulling me off,” Abby said.

Jonathan quit tugging.

“I can’t see you very well,” Abby said. “It’s too dark.”

“The moon will be out soon.”

“I want my night-light. I want my pink blanket. I want Raggedy.”

“I’m going to teach you a new song.” Jonathan tried to think what songs he knew that Abby didn’t. The only one he could come up with was the one his baseball team sang on the bus en route to games: “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the shelf.”

He knew his parents would not appreciate it if he taught his six-year-old sister a song about beer. On the other hand, that song would last a long time and keep Abby calm.

He changed the lyrics and began. “Ninety-nine Raggedy Anns on the shelf; ninety-nine Raggedy Anns. If one of the dolls should happen to fall, ninety-eight Raggedy Anns on the shelf.”

By the time he got to ninety-five, Abby had caught on and was singing with him. She didn’t know how to count backward so she waited for him to sing the correct number each time and then she joined in. They sang all the way down to one Raggedy Ann on the shelf, and then back up to ninety-nine again.

His tree was bobbing about less, floating more smoothly.
The moon rose, spreading a dim light. Raising his head from the tree, Jonathan looked around. There was water everywhere except far to his right, beyond Abby. In that direction, he saw several bright spots. The brightness was orange and yellow, lighting the sky.

Fire.

Jonathan counted five separate bright areas. Five fires. The dark outlines of buildings were silhouetted against the fire closest to him.

Beaverville is burning, Jonathan realized.

There were no other lights, which meant the electricity must be gone. But there would still be people. People would be there, fighting the fires. They might even be on the banks of the river, dipping buckets of water to use on the fires.

“We’re going to call for help,” Jonathan said. “Maybe someone on shore will hear us. I’ll count to three, and we’ll yell together. One. Two. Three. HELP!”

Abby’s voice joined his and they screamed together, over and over. “Help! Help!” Then they listened, to see if there was any response. They heard no answering shouts.

Jonathan tried to gauge how far they were from shore. He guessed it was twice the distance from home plate to the center field wall. He was a strong swimmer. He could probably make it, despite the swift current. Moose would make it, for sure. Maybe he and Moose should swim to shore and then someone in a boat could go after Abby and bring her back.

Even as he made the plan, he knew he wouldn’t carry it
out. He couldn’t leave Abby floating down the river alone. She would be terrified. And without Jonathan to distract her with singing, she would probably get hysterical.

What if she slipped off her tree or was knocked off? At least if they were together, Jonathan might be able to save her if she fell in. By herself, Abby would have no chance.

“One, two, three,” Jonathan counted. “Help!” they yelled together. “Help! Help!”

Their shouts faded into the darkness. Could anyone on shore hear them? Was there anyone on shore? Maybe Beaverville had been evacuated. If so, where were Mom and Dad? They had been headed for the emergency room at Beaverville Hospital but maybe the hospital wasn’t functioning. Maybe the hospital was burning. For all he knew, most of Beaverville was a pile of rubble.

The shoreline changed. The glow of the fires faded away like the taillights of a passing car.

Beaverville was behind them. Blackness took its place.

“Mommy didn’t hear us,” Abby said.

“We’ll try again at the next town.”

“I’m cold. I want my Barney sweatshirt.”

For an instant, Jonathan was annoyed. What did she expect him to do, swim back to Magpie Campground, dive under the river, lift the giant redwood with one hand, grab her sweatshirt off the hook, and swim back? “I’m not Superman,” Jonathan muttered.

“When we get home,” Abby said, “let’s make popcorn.”

Jonathan’s annoyance vanished. She’s only six, he reminded
himself. She doesn’t really understand what is happening to us.

“Popcorn sounds great,” he said.

Jonathan knew there was another town, Kendra, still ahead on the bank of the Tuscan. Maybe they would float closer to shore by then. Maybe someone in Kendra would hear their cries.

And maybe not.

M
rs. Palmer screamed.

Mr. Palmer clutched the steering wheel and slammed his foot on the brake. Trees crashed around them as the car bucked like an untrained horse.

They had just crossed the bridge from Magpie Island to the mainland when the earthquake hit. Without warning, the entire car rose six inches off the road and bounced back down again.

Mr. Palmer turned off the engine but the car kept moving, swaying from side to side and rocking from back to front at the same time. The Palmers leaned forward in their seats, with their hands on their heads, while the earth pitched and rumbled and shook. The quake went on and on.

“We have to go back,” Mrs. Palmer said, when it was finally over. “We must get the children.”

Mr. Palmer got out of the car and looked around. The road was buckled in several places; trees were down everywhere. He walked behind the car to the bend in the road and looked back toward the island. His heart drummed loudly as he returned to the car.

“We can’t go back,” he said. “The bridge collapsed.”

Mrs. Palmer looked through the windshield at the trees blocking the road. “We can’t drive to town, either,” she said. “You’ll have to walk to Beaverville for help. I’ll wait here.”

Her ankle throbbed. The movement of the earthquake had made her legs bounce, and several times the broken ankle had slammed into the car door. She hoped she would not pass out from the pain.

“I don’t like to leave you,” Mr. Palmer said.

“There’s no choice.”

He nodded. He looked at his wife and saw his own fear reflected in her eyes. Were Jonathan and Abby hurt? How long would it take for help to get to them?

“Get help for Jonathan and Abby first,” Mrs. Palmer said. “I can wait. They may not be able to.”

He nodded. “I’ll hurry,” he said.

It was not so easy to hurry. He couldn’t just run along the road to town; he had to climb over downed trees and step around fallen branches.

Half a mile from the car, power lines hung across the road. The wooden power pole tilted at a forty-five-degree angle while the lines drooped downward. The wires hissed and
sparks flew out. Mr. Palmer walked half a city block out of his way to get past the wires without touching them.

He hoped they didn’t start a forest fire. This area was heavily wooded and there had been no rain all summer. He added the power lines to his mental list of emergencies to deal with as soon as he got to town.

Or did this mean there would be no telephone service in Beaverville? Maybe all the power and telephone lines were out of service. It might not be so easy to arrange a rescue for Abby and Jonathan and another for his wife.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead and plunged on toward Beaverville. Fear surrounded him like a winter fog. His body stayed warm from the physical exertion but inside, his heart felt chilled.

Three hours later, he saw a house, set back from the road. He pounded on the door. A fat, balding man opened the door.

“I need help,” Mr. Palmer said.

“Don’t we all?”

“My kids are alone on Magpie Island and my wife’s in the car back by the bridge with a broken ankle. I need to use your telephone.”

“Won’t do you any good,” the man said. “Phone’s out. Power’s out. Water mains are broken.” He opened the door wider. “You’re welcome to come in and wait with me and my wife. We can offer you a peanut butter sandwich but that’s all.”

“Thanks, anyway,” Mr. Palmer said. “I’ll go on into
town. There must be some sort of emergency headquarters. The Red Cross or the National Guard or someone must be coordinating rescue efforts.”

“Good luck,” the man said.

“Thanks. I’m going to need it.”

As Mr. Palmer continued on the road toward Beaverville, it grew dark. Blisters bubbled on both of his heels. He hoped Jonathan had sense enough to wait in the camper. Abby would fall asleep in a place she was accustomed to.

He smelled the town before he saw it. Smoke hung in the air, making it difficult to breathe. He coughed and held his arm up to his face, trying not to inhale the smoke.

As he climbed a small hill, he saw an orange glow ahead.