The noise, which pulsed with the column, was the roar of a giant.
Nothing for me to worry about. Not yet. It’s down there, I’m up here. The larger heavier stuff was falling in the south moat, and downwind the clouds strung out and appeared to be dragging a curtain of ash over the caldera. All I was getting up here was drift from the winds.
I watched the eruption, growing giddy at the sight. I know just what this is. Heard about it from Lindsay, saw the evidence laid down by ancient beasts just like this one. Phreatic, a steam-blast explosion. That hot tongue of magma in the south moat had pushed all the way to the surface where it met ground water, flashing the water into steam. And now the steam is pulverizing old rock, grinding it to pebbles and ash, and shotgunning the lot into the sky. I know this is probably a prelude. I know what happened here hundreds of thousands of years ago and what can happen again tomorrow, or a week from now, or today even, but I can’t seem to make myself move. I can’t stop looking. This is astonishing. This isn’t like my dreams. The ground isn’t rotting, and right now I’m more dazzled than scared. I know I should be getting out of here but this is incredible. This is like watching fireworks in the meadow behind my house when I was little enough that fireworks took my breath away.
Lindsay you should be here to see this. The Survey alert level WARNING does not do this justice. They need another level. HOLY SHIT.
Even for this, she would not come.
And it was her silence that brought me out of my slack-jawed gawking. I started downhill, looking constantly over my shoulder to see if the sight was still there. I took shelter briefly in the tunnel to clean ash off my face, out of my ears, from the folds of my lingerie mask.
Hightailing it down the Lake Mary Road, I kept replaying the image of that snake. I went over every detail, turning that eruption column around in my head wondering, is this big? Small? How is this going to progress? I wanted to go back and look again and at the same time I wanted to get as far away as possible. I was buzzed. I was scared again, but looking that thing in the eye had kicked me into a kind of thrill-ride fear. I wanted to scream and close my eyes and then look and see it all again. You’re nuts, I told myself, you’re crazier than the guy who challenges the volcano but I had come to this weird space where I felt that because I’d looked it dead on, that I was free. I was above it. I had come out of an avalanche and seen this and here I was free to go on my way. I was alive.
I was a cat with nine lives.
I came to the outskirts of town and cut off the Lake Mary Road, toward Walter’s neighborhood. The streets, the houses, were gray. Everybody gone but me. Me and the houses with their coatings of ash like sheet-draped furniture in unused rooms.
Walter’s house was dark. I pounded on the door. He didn’t answer so I got the key he hides behind the rain gutter. Dim inside. I flipped a light switch. No power. Okay; ash had shorted out the transformers. I yelled for him. Silence. I ran through his house, tracking his carpet with ash, knocking into his captain’s chair — and why hadn’t he moved that to storage, one more good chair left behind. He wasn’t home. Okay. I knew now where he was. At her office.
Outside, the ashfall had thickened.
I hesitated. I’d promised her not to do anything foolish. I decided to go home first and gear up.
Stuff’s getting deep, I thought as I walked it. Get skis.
My street was like the others, my house like Walter’s. Dark. I broke into a run, cutting up the empty driveway past the lawn chairs. Keys were in my purse; purse was in the pack. Gone. I got the snow shovel that Jimbo left last time he cleared the path to the woodpile, and smashed the kitchen-sink window. Nothing stops me. I climbed onto the sill then stepped into the sink. Glass crunched. I leaped to the floor, crunched across the kitchen, and grabbed the flashlight from the catch-all drawer.
I shone the light. Cabinet doors stood open. The floor was a sea of broken glass and crockery and dented cans and supine boxes.
I ran to the living room and found the phone table tipped over. Phone was dead.
It’s okay. Just gear up and go.
I ran upstairs to the bathroom and rooted through the stuff spilled out of the medicine cabinet and found bandages and tape and Neosporin. I turned on the faucet and was glad to find that quakes hadn’t ruptured the water pipes. Water sluiced gray mud from my hands and it hurt like hell. My right hand was raw, my left fingertips chewed. The wounds were clotted with dark stuff; ash, blood, I couldn’t tell. I looked in horror. I wanted Lindsay here to bandage my hands. No, I wanted someone alive. Walter.
There was a small earthquake. I bandaged myself, making a mess of the job.
I went into my parents’ room and ransacked Mom’s drawers and fumbled out of my wet clothes and put on hers. Too big; I added layers. Cold as shit in here and getting darker outside.
I moved downstairs. Walk, don’t run. Don’t fall and break an ankle.
Down in the garage, everything was on the floor. I waded in, striking gold again and again. Folding snow shovel. Rope. Pitons — take them, who knew? Water bottles, backpacking stove, very good. A compass — yes, yes, good, great. Flashlights. I chose three. Batteries in the kitchen drawer. I shone my light over the helmets and found Jimbo’s old spelunking hard hat with the caver’s headlamp. Pure gold. I reached for skis, then reconsidered. Snowshoes more versatile, take those. What else, from my father’s emporium? I moved to his workshop and selected knife, duct tape, two screwdrivers, flat and Phillips head — who knew? A new appreciation for my father’s skills flooded me. Walter can’t change a water filter. Walter wouldn’t know where the water filter is. I hunted for my father’s dust masks. Couldn’t find them. Come on, he’s got a million of those things. Buried somewhere. Shit.
The garage shook.
And then like a gift I knew what to do, mind leaping ahead. Nothing stops me.
Back into the kitchen, crunching glass and kicking cans. Ash coming in through the broken window. What a mess. I dropped my gear and went to the catch-all drawer. Batteries, matches, safety pins. I took them all. An old windup watch; I took it. I dug around. Ahhh, rubber bands. I moved to the counter and found the nesting coffee filters, beautiful just beautiful. I put together two coffee-filter-rubber-band dust masks and packed the materials for more. I filled the water bottles.
I ran upstairs and took the first-aid supplies and carried the stuff back down.
Done?
Breathing hard, I swept the flashlight around the kitchen. Must be something else. I hefted the pack. Weighed a ton. I wanted more.
Food.
Nearly blew that. Cans, packages, bags on the counters, on the floor. I started to grab. Wait, prioritize. I emptied a box of granola bars into my pack. Dried apricots, there’s a prize. A package of Oreos. My mouth watered. I spun to the freezer and there was the sweet potato pie. Hard luck, Jimbo. Then my heart sank. No power to nuke it.
I opened the fridge. Empty as Siberia. Bottle of catsup on its side and a sponge. My stomach growled. Back to the cupboard and I found an open sack of pretzels and crammed them into my mouth. Stale. Salty. Wonderful. I drank long and deep from the kitchen faucet, eschewing a glass. I’m alive, I’m surviving, I have no time for such niceties as a drinking glass, should one be left intact.
Now go.
I got Jimbo’s caving helmet and, thank you very much, found batteries to fit. I strapped on the helmet, put on goggles, fitted the dust mask — a success — and put on heavy work gloves. That hurt. Pain didn’t stop me. I got into the pack. Lord in heaven, heavy. I grabbed the snowshoes and went out the door. Didn’t lock it, didn’t look back. I’m outta here.