Cascadia Fallen: The Complete Trilogy, page 4
Tony followed the man back to his pick-up. Another vehicle was slowly coming to a stop at the obstruction. Tony went over to get the car to stop farther away while the stranger grabbed a tow strap from his cab. When the third car was stopped the man backed his truck up to give Tony’s rig as much room as possible.
They went back to the front. Tony nosed forward and right to grab the tree as high up it as he could. He parked close into the branches. The man slowly stepped into the mess and wrapped a girth-hitch around the tree’s trunk using the middle of the tow strap. He moved over to Tony’s bumper with both ends and wrapped them both around the bumper and frame behind it, finally hooking the two ends together so the tow-strap was doubled up.
After the man moved away from the fallen fir, Tony slowly backed his rig, angling back to the northbound side of the road. He didn’t get the tree completely off to the shoulder, but it was far enough. A small round of hoorays erupted from the other bystanders.
“Not bad for a Ford!” the man joked. He and Tony shook hands and everyone headed back for their vehicles.
Within a few minutes, people were able to start taking turns driving through the gap. Man, that’s nice, Tony thought, smiling. I love America—how people step up and help each other when the chips are down. His thoughts returned to semi-worry as he thought of his wife and children. He decided he’d skip checking in at work and go see Sheila as the big truck lumbered toward the south end of the county.
3
Taking Action.
Quake + 1 Hour.
Phil was home finally, a feat only possible due to his proximity to the club—about two miles. It also helped that he typically kept a hodge-podge of tools riding around under the bed cover of his newer model gray pick-up. The truck was a byproduct of his settlement with the state after the shooting incident on the highway. The criminals were members of an outlaw motorcycle club that distributed meth and had just knocked off the headquarters of a small time rival that had tried to quietly steal territory. Due to the egregiousness of the incident, the State of Washington had used asset forfeiture laws to take every cent they could. Phil hired his attorney friend, a fellow shooter from Mason County named George Donovan, to help him get a settlement.
As Phil had turned left off of Canal Vista Highway and onto the dirt road that contained his and several neighbors’ driveways, he almost ran into a tree that had fallen. He hit the brakes and got out. The tool-pile in the bed varied from month to month, usually influenced by the variety of improvements and repairs needed at the club. He found a battery-powered reciprocating saw, but the battery and blade were toast. Ahh, the folding pruning saw. Why are you even in here? Field day, back in July. Okay. You’ll do just fine.
Phil had gotten the thing at one of the big-chain hardware stores for something like fourteen dollars, but it worked well. The folding saw had a short blade, but a person could need stitches in a hurry if they weren’t careful where they placed their other hand. The little saw made quick work of the tree tops and select branches. I’ll bring the chainsaw down in a bit if my house is still standing. Phil drove past the cleared obstacle and made it the full quarter-mile to his driveway without issue.
Phil lived north of the range on Medford Lane, a road that fed about fifteen properties. Most were about five acres in size. People out here in West Slaughter County tended to be more self-reliant than the more populated parts of the county. The windstorms that came rushing off the Pacific Ocean and around the Olympic Mountains typically pointed themselves up or down the Hood Canal. The canal was the other body of water that enveloped Slaughter County, turning it into a peninsula. It was a complex land mass that contained many sub-peninsulas and inlets of water around them. People out here lost power every year, at least partial days and at least a couple of times per winter. Even with some space between homes, Phil could always tell which neighbors owned generators within a few minutes of the power going out. Phil owned a dual-fuel generator that could run on both gasoline and propane, but he only lit it if the power was still out after one night.
Dakota and Phil hopped out of the truck into the driveway. Dakota went to sniff her normal area of the woods and investigate the chicken coop, part of her normal patrol procedure. The first thing Phil did was look at his well-house, a small enclosed structure about six feet by six feet and just barely tall enough to stand in. Seems fine, might as well look inside. The pressure tank and iron-filter were still standing, thanks to the strapping he’d wrapped around each of them and screwed to the studs of the little structure. The pressure tank and pipes usually kept Phil’s house supplied with about thirty to forty gallons of water before he had to think about running the generator. The property’s power lines were buried, which meant he wasn’t worried about a tree taking them out.
The familiar vibration-ring of Phil’s cellphone—he preferred the straight, old-school phone ring sound—surprised him. “HUH!” he actually said out loud to nobody but Dakota. “Hey, Fred.”
“Hi, Phil, it’s Fred!”
I know—I just said your name. “Ya’ don’t say. You caught me off guard, sir. How you doing? How’s Phyllis?”
Fred O’Conner was the Lead Range Officer for Wednesdays and Saturdays. Like Don Kwiatkosky, Fred was a life member who had given thousands of hours of his time to the West Sound Sportsmen’s Club. The Lead Range Officers were women and men who Phil trusted to make the right decisions when he wasn’t there, and they generally ran the range lines and office, even when he was there. This freed him up to plan classes and work on projects. The number of subordinate range-safety officers—called ROs— on a given day varied from zero to ten. How many were there depended on factors like how busy those days of the week usually were, or if there were classes or events happening. The club membership was a strong and dedicated group.
“We’re fine. All good here. Just kind of scary, that’s all. So…I tried calling the office, but nobody answered. Are you guys alright?”
“Yeah, we’re good. We had a couple of public shooters, but they left as soon as they could. Don and I both left after we did a quick scout of the property.”
“Good, good…Hey, listen, do you think we’ll be open tomorrow?”
“I don’t see why not. Why? Do you want to take off? I’ll be there—take care of Phyllis. It’s okay.”
“Yeah, I think I might. You know—my hip has been bothering me some, and the VA is taking their time. I just figured I might take another day off.”
“Well, I appreciate the notice, Fred. Don’t sweat it,” Phil trailed off, pausing because he didn’t know how to say the rest. He had to cut off Fred as he was about to start the normal good-bye sequence. “Listen, Fred—I’m not sure how to phrase this, but…you know…be ready. The aftershocks are never as bad, but they can seem that way because the damage will compound. You know, just call if you need anything. Better yet, text. I know you hate typing on phones, but you actually got pretty lucky getting this call through.”
“Alright, Phil, I hear ya’. I’ll talk to you in a few days. Bye.”
“Later.”
Phil went back to his checks. He did a full sweep outside the main house, feeding his chickens and inspecting his greenhouse along the way. His fall plantings were doing nicely. Shop looks fine. Just some stuff to pick up. He grabbed his chainsaw, bar oil, and mixed gas and placed them in the bed of the truck on the way back around the house. He finally opened the garage door—he wasn’t surprised by what he saw. Most every item that used to live on a shelf now resided on the garage floor. Luckily that mostly meant messes along the walls. Crane’s jeep looked fine. His son had spent a lot of his overtime money fixing up a midnight-blue, 1994 Jeep Wrangler. It was his baby. He kept it over here since he was renting a house in Bartlett with two high school friends and another shipyard worker. He and his roommates worked a lot, and he just didn’t trust that it would be safe there.
Sitting in the back of the garage behind the Jeep was all of Phil’s hunting and camping equipment. He’d been spending evenings going through it all. He had been “blanked” during the previous month’s archery season and was looking forward to next week’s rifle hunt. The freezer was getting empty. One benefit of being the Range Master at the most popular rifle-line in the county was meeting a lot of cool people, playing with a lot of neat “toys,” and being invited on a lot of hunting trips.
Whereas a lot of people had built themselves “bug-out bags,” Phil had built a bug-out “system,” and his camping gear was at the core of it. His pack wasn’t the typical, coyote-brown military-looking pack that so many people preferred in recent years. Rather, it was an ultra-lite backpacker’s rig—an expensive one. When people balked at learning how much he spent on it, he’d always tell them it was worth every penny. He’d taped up one too many broken straps in the Marines, and he knew that he got what he paid for. He also knew that ounces equaled pounds which equaled pain. He had a set-up that allowed him to camp in a hammock. It kept him warm, dry, and off the ground. He could start fires a dozen ways, filter water, and even make coffee—life giving liquid gold.
His bug-out theory was that if he ever had to head for the Olympic Mountains—or better yet, Idaho—then that meant driving. And if he couldn’t drive, then he’d better be realistic about what he was carrying. While in pretty decent shape, he had definitely packed on a few pounds since the shooting. So many people build forty-pound packs without actually carrying them up and down hills. The rest of his system was for vehicle travel, operating under the theory that he wouldn’t be coming back home. It was stored in plastic boxes and brand-new, thirty-two-gallon cans. This made for durability and was rodent resistant. All of that gear was still out in the shop.
Phil went into the first floor of his house from the garage entrance. He did a quick sniff test for propane. No weird smells means no leaks. Clock’s dark. No power still. Heading back into the garage, he went through the entire process to secure the breaker switches, start his generator, and get power going to the well-pump and select house circuits.
He went back inside and went upstairs. His house was a split-level entry with the upstairs acting as the main floor. He double-checked the kitchen and furnace areas for gas leaks and then went into the bathroom. He opened the vanity below the sink and grabbed a box. Finally get to use this thing. He opened the box and pulled out a lump of plastic that unfolded into a “Water Bob.” It was a thirty-dollar plastic tank that lined the tub and held about a hundred gallons of water. It came with a cheap accordion pump to get the water back out. Lastly, Phil had a gravity-fed septic system, so he took the opportunity to take care of that business as well.
Good time to check the phone. He was starting to get a little worried about Payton. She still hadn’t texted him back. Maybe I’ll get lucky… He tried calling, but he only heard the familiar fast-busy. Another text. [Phil: “O, 2nd request for update. Don’t make me come looking for you!”] Phil started thinking about getting stranded during aftershocks. I think I’d better throw some more stuff into the truck.
Payton had managed to get to the school. She had to slow drive through a large pool of water in Sylvan. Probably a broken waterline, she thought. She and Savannah had an apartment on the west side of town, one of several units that sprang up in the 90s when the Navy bases started shipping lots of sailors to the area. Her path to her daughter’s school took her under one of the Highway 8 overpasses and through two small neighborhoods. Everything looked fairly normal, all things considered. Signs that people had started clearing an occasional fallen tree were evident. In her short drive it seemed to her that power lines had fared well. She remembered all the road construction for several summers, something about how they’re slowly burying the phone and fiber-optic lines.
During the drive she had gotten a text from her neighbor, Jennifer, who normally watched Savannah while Payton was working. She learned that Jennifer and her kids were heading over to her parents’ house on Russell Island to check on them. She wouldn’t be available to babysit. Well, I guess Safeway will be short one swing-shift deli worker tonight…
She was soon standing outside the front of the school with a growing group of parents. They could see the kids standing in groups out in the fenced-off field past the playground. “Why are you making our kids stand in the rain?” one mother asked loudly.
Good question, Payton thought.
More and more of the parents were starting to murmur similar thoughts. As new arrivals showed up the staffer who was keeping the group near the drop-off zone was becoming more boisterous. “Folks,” she said, “please stay here. Principal Sellar will be over to update everyone as soon as she can.”
I should just walk over and find my daughter, Payton thought. What are they going to do—arrest me?
Brrrt… Great. Another text from dad. She didn’t even read it when she replied: [Payton: “Waiting outside the school. About to go postal. Everyone fine. Will call tonight when the power comes back on.”] That should quiet him.
About that time three more staffers, including Principal Sellar, approached the group. They had come over from a pop-up canopy that been spread over the back of an S.U.V.
“Hi, everyone,” the short round principal began. “Let me start by saying your children are fine. Everyone evacuated safely, and all were accounted for.”
“But why—"
“Your children are standing in the field,” the principal spoke over the vocal mother, “because our maintenance staff have reported that the sprinkler system is flowing out of its over-flow port. That means the system is down. We were trying to get the school district’s engineer or the fire department to come out and check it, but multiple schools are reporting issues. The district head has initiated the emergency bus-schedule. I am releasing your children to you.”
How very nice of you, Payton thought sarcastically.
Principal Sellar continued. “We need to have you sign your kids out just like any other day, so bear with us a few more minutes while we set that up under that canopy over there.”
Payton waited her turn, and another twenty minutes went by before she could hug and kiss her daughter. They held each other’s hands on the way back to the car, Payton carrying Savannah’s multi-colored unicorn-adorned backpack in her other hand.
“Baby, Paw-paw said he’s thinking about you. I’m not going to work tonight. If you get your homework done, maybe we can go get ice cream.”
Tony Manners was crawling through traffic in Port View, making his way to Sheila’s office. His wife was a medical assistant for a pediatrician in the south end of the county. Port View was the only city in this end of Slaughter County, with about 12,000 of the county’s 270,000 residents living in it. Bartlett was the county’s major city, but Port View was the county seat. The un-incorporated area all around Port View was quite populated as well. The south end of Slaughter County housed about forty-five percent of the total residents.
Traffic was crawling because just about every major intersection had a cop controlling the flow. While power had remained on in the central and north parts of Slaughter County, the south end was completely de-energized. Occasionally everything came to a crawl when an emergency vehicle went flying through. This area already sucks for traffic, Tony thought. Now this.
People complained about the traffic issues often, but they usually forgot to account for the geography. Being a peninsula with a lot of inlets and shore line, roads were often not “straight and square” like they were in more open communities. In fact, Tony had just driven through the one thoroughfare that connected the central and north areas of the county to the lower half of the peninsula. It went between Simpson Inlet and the Bartlett Watershed/Oro Mountain complex, and it was literally a choke point. People who lived south of that point had to deal with horrendous traffic almost daily.
He was finally driving east and almost there. His wife’s office was near one of the bigger east to west thoroughfares in Port View. He arrived, and the big faithful Ford started creaking with the sounds of cooling off after he’d shut it down. He stretched a bit as he lumbered towards the office lobby. Tony was always more of an eater than he was an exerciser. He was a big man at 6’ 2” and about 350 pounds. The only thing bigger than Tony’s size was his heart. Almost everyone who met the friendly giant loved him immediately.
Born to a large and loving Christian family in Virginia, Tony had gone to boot camp shortly after high school and served eight years in the supply department, attaining the rank of First-Class Petty Officer. After he discharged, he worked as a sub-contractor at the shipyard for several small contracts, but he decided he’d had enough of the Navy. However, he’d married a local so now he was stuck in Slaughter County. He had worked over in King County at a warehouse for a few years, but four years earlier he took the water delivery job to be closer to his family.
Tony strolled in with his usual greeting, “What’s up, ladies! Big Papa’s in the house!” It was particularly funny because it always bothered Nick, the sole male receptionist. Tony didn’t care. He got a casual “Hey, Tony” from a few of the other staff. His wife made a bee-line from behind the counter when she saw him. She looked worried. Instead of the usual smooch, Tony just got a quick hug.
“I’ve been trying to call the school and all I get is a busy signal,” Sheila told her husband.
“Relax, babe. I’m sure the kids are fine. Schools are built tough!”
“They’re on a field trip to Seattle today, remember?”
Awww, snap! “Alright, alright, now calm down, baby. I’m sure the girls are fine. I was able to drive here from Canal Vista. Everything’s okay.” He was doing his best to show that he believed it. He had to because he knew he would have to be the one that held it together.
