“At least Jefferson City will have warning,” Jessica said. “Which is more than they’ll have if the dam fails.” She had, at long last, heard about the failure of the Clarence Cannon Dam and the wall of water that had torn its way through the rich Illinois bottom land on its route to the Mississippi. Hundreds of people were missing. Nothing like that was going to happen again, not if she could prevent it.
“Very good, Miss Frazetta. I’ll start dumping all the water I can.”
Jessica rang off. Her ear ached from the many hours she’d spent with her cellphone pressed against it. It was very possible that she’d give herself a cauliflower ear before this was all over. Her dutiful staff had prepared the morning SITREP, a copy of which she carried in her pocket. The Situation Report duly noted everything they knew or did not know, from which flood control structures had failed to how many of their own personnel were injured or missing. The list of “unknowns” was much larger than the list of items of which the staff were certain.
Jessica’s stomach growled. She remembered she hadn’t eaten since the previous day’s lunch. And she hadn’t slept since before that.
She went to the mess tent. The tent echoed to the chatter of a large number of women and children. Many of Jessica’s returning subordinates had straggled onto base complete with their families and a fair selection of their possessions. Their houses and trailers had been wrecked, the district was in chaos, and Jessica could forgive them for figuring that if anyone in this situation was going to have food, shelter, and clothing, it would be the Army.
Jessica hadn’t the heart to turn these refugees away. Besides, from a strictly utilitarian point of view, she could hardly expect her subordinates, almost all of whom were civilians, to give their all for the Army while they were worried sick about their families.
But she had made rules. Everyone works was the first. Adults were to assist Corps personnel in pitching tents, setting up gear, policing the area, and cooking. Older children helped as well, or watched the younger children. The only people excused were those too young to have a job, and those injured in the quake, who were sent to the hospital tent.
Jessica tried not to think about liability issues. Could she be sued if one of her civilians was injured by a falling branch? If one of the children tripped over a tent line and broke a leg?
She put out orders that non-Corps personnel were not to enter the damaged buildings on any of the various ongoing salvage operations. She figured that might limit her liability in at least one direction. The mess tent’s sides were rolled up to provide ventilation, and a few scavenged tables and chairs had been set up. Some young children in one corner were sitting in a circle and playing a game under the direction of an older child. The woman behind the improvised counter—a battered old folding table—looked at Jessica and smiled. “We’ve got oatmeal coming up, General,” she said. “Would you like a cup of coffee while you wait?”
Jessica hesitated. She hadn’t had coffee in eight years. Everyone said it made her too hyper. Hell, she figured, the country needed hyper right now.
“I would absolutely love a cup of joe,” Jessica said. “Black, with two sugars.” When Jessica was handed the white porcelain mug, she held it under her nose and breathed in the fragrance. Her mouth watered.
It tasted as wonderful as she remembered.
“It’s impossible,” said Mrs. Shawbutt, Charlie’s neighbor. She was strangely dressed in a caftan, a wide-brimmed straw hat, and large dark glasses with pale blue lenses. “The roads are too torn up, the bridges are all out—there’s no way you can drive downtown. And besides—” She looked significantly at the column of smoke rising on the horizon. “Downtown’s on fire. The radio is saying people shouldn’t try to leave their homes unless their lives are in danger.”
“I’ve got to get to a phone,” Charlie said. “Or a computer.” Mrs. Shawbutt shook her head. “Phones are out. Even cell-phones, I hear.” She looked at him through her hornrims. “Have you been drinking, Mr. Johns?”
Charlie shrugged. “No water, love. I drank what I could find.”
“You should be careful. You can get dehydrated if you drink alcohol.”
“I’ll get something later.”
He gave his neighbor a wave and walked out into the street. No one was cooperating with his plan to get to work—he’d asked everyone he knew, and they’d all given the same answer. He looked at the Breitling on his wrist, saw that the New York Exchange would open in less than an hour.
“Might as well walk,” Charlie muttered to himself. Surely he would find a cab somewhere. Or, if need be, a bus.
He remembered Mrs. Shawbutt in her big straw hat. “Be careful of the sun,” he reminded himself. He went back to his house to get a cap from the front hall closet. It featured the logo of the St. Louis Cardinals, and it was the cap he wore when he lost at golf to Dearborne.
Charlie put the cap on his head. He buttoned his collar and straightened and tightened his tie. He looked at himself in the hall mirror that, surprisingly, had neither fallen nor cracked. Brushed scuffmarks off his shoes. He was ready for work.
He stepped over the gap between the house and the front portico—have to call his insurance people when he got to his office—and then he looked down at the half-empty bottle of Moet. He hesitated for a moment, then picked up the bottle.
The heat of the day was already rising. Charlie could feel sweat gathering under his cap. He started down the street, the bottle swinging at the end of his arm. His stiff leg eased as he walked. He waved at the people he saw, people who had slept in their cars or on their lawns.
He turned right at the corner, drank some champagne, and kept on walking. The huge pillar of smoke loomed right ahead of him.
This street was much the same as his own. All the houses had been damaged; all the chimneys had fallen; two houses had collapsed. One of the houses that still stood had been burnt out. The gutters were full of water—apparently a water main had broken.
Charlie looked ahead, saw something disturbing ahead, slowed. He approached the strange sight with a frown.
Right across his path was a crack in the earth, cutting left and right across the street, over curbs and through yards, and beneath one partially collapsed home. The crack was about three feet wide, and five or six feet down had filled with black, silent water. The ground had dropped three feet on Charlie’s side, or risen on the other, because Charlie faced a little cliff of raw earth topped by broken asphalt. Charlie took a drink of the champagne and looked at the chasm. He paced uncertainly back and forth. It wasn’t that wide, he thought. He could cross it in one jump.
Charlie’s inner ear gave a lurch, and the ground trembled, just a little. Bubbles rose to the surface in the black water at the bottom of the chasm.
Charlie’s heart thudded in his chest. Weakness shivered through his limbs. He took another drink of the champagne.
“I am Lord of the Jungle,” he said. But in his mind all he could see was Megan’s body lying in his bedroom.
Tears burned his eyes. The chasm had cut clean across his world.
He didn’t remember when he turned around and began the walk home. But some time later he found himself standing on the walk outside his house, an empty Moet bottle in his hands. He sat behind the wheel of Megan’s car and picked up the cellphone that was lying on the seat and began to punch in numbers.
No one answered.
Prime Power.
Helicopters circled overhead, judging the correct approach to the helipad that Jessica’s people had chain-sawed and bulldozed across the road from the Post Exchange. Rotors flogged the air, beat at Jessica’s ears. She grinned.