The Nuclear Catastrophe (a fiction novel of survival) (8 page)

With these things done, Cecil went into the small room used by the night security guard. Swiftly he pried the lock off the guard
’
s locker. Inside he found the oily thirty-eight caliber pistol that was carried on night rounds, which he slipped into the outer pocket of his jacket.  It was metal but he would stow it away from his body once he got outside.

A last glance around, and he moved past the conference room into the business office. Hesitating for a mere second to scan the office, he stooped to the huge gray safe. It was a new security device, recently installed, and with a flick of the lever the safe was open. Brushing aside the coins, he removed the bills and stuffed them into a money bag. Dropping the bag into his pocket, he turned and walked out the door.

In the rear-view mirror of his car, the squat, sprawling plant seemed a deserted, forsaken structure. He wondered  when people would again darken its portals

Sixteen years Cecil had given to Calmar Chemical and in those years he
’
d worked himself from a laboratory chemist doing dilutions to a minor executive position. And today it was over. His decision had been hastily formed but Cecil knew that once his mind was made up he wouldn
’
t change it. On some future day this plant would be operating again, but it wouldn
’
t be for quite some time, and it would never include Cecil Yeager
’
s services. He wasn
’
t unhappy to be leaving Calmar, wishing only that it had been for a different reason. With his course of action now firmly fixed in his mind, Cecil made the journey from Calmar to his townhouse.  Traffic was a nightmare. Everyone seemed to be in their cars.

Damn, he wished he hadn
’
t bought the place. As soon as he quit making payments it would be repossessed. He cast the thought aside as he rushed into the bedroom. There was only one thing he
’
d take, but the reflection in the mirror stopped him in his tracks. He
’
d never been a man to smile easily and catching a view of himself, the heavy, bushy eyebrows knitted in concentration, the thin lips a gash in his lower face, he halted momentarily. He stared at the somber, serious reflection of himself. For an instant he tried relaxing the muscles that had pulled the crows feet into deep trenches. But it didn
’
t work. They had been there forever, the lines. They were permanent fixtures to the side of each of his eyes, firmly ingrained in the flesh of his face. He grabbed  some clothes and his cash that he had stashed and rushed out the door, back to his car.

An hour and twenty minutes had elapsed since the explosion at White Water. How quickly had the news spread? As he accelerated onto the freeway ramp traffic was congested moving south away from Whitewater and only dribbles of northbound vehicles were on the freeway. The morning had turned hot and stuffy and it was uncomfortably warm in the car but Cecil elected the heat in favor of drawing in more air from the outside.

Nature was inflicting a cruel joke on Californians this morning. The temperature inversion was becoming a crucial barrier to dispersion of the fallout. Under ordinary weather conditions, offshore winds would be whipping the heavily-laden air higher in the sky and carrying it eastward, over the less populated desert regions. Or, under more unusual conditions, a good strong Santa Ana wind coming in from the deserts would blow the foul air over the Pacific. But neither of these wind systems was present this morning. There were only the meager puffs that occasionally circulated under the heavier layer of air. If this inversion persisted for more than a day or so, Cecil knew, there could be thousands of casualties from radiation exposure.
 

Cecil had always had a fear of flying. Even during the war he
’
d had to steel himself against this unreasonable fear and literally force himself onto the planes. And Dramamine and mild sedatives did nothing to quell the churning in his stomach and the tightness in his chest. Still, this was the moment to throw caution to the wind....wind? He grimaced at having formed the word in his mind. He needed to get away from here—out of the radiation—as soon as possible. Ahead lay the landing strip, looking dull in the gray haze.

The money sack formed a bulge in his jacket pocket and he reached down and patted it, secure with the thought that for enough money one could buy anything. He drove up to the one person in sight.

“
Yes sir?
”
the man in dirty coveralls asked.
“
What can I do for you?
”

“
A plane,
”
Cecil replied.
“
I want to charter a plane.
”

“
When do you...?
”
began the attendant.

“
Right now. I want one right now,
”
said Cecil in a rush of words as he alighted from the car.

“
Well, now, I don
’
t know. My other pilot is out and I can
’
t leave the place,
”
answered the man.
“
There
’
s no way....
”

Cecil snorted testily,
“
You run a charter service, don
’
t you? Can you fly?
”

“
Well sure, but mister, we
’
re a shoestring outfit.
’’

“
I
’
ll pay you—pay you well. All I want is to get away from here.
”
In his eagerness Cecil was pressing the man. He wondered if his approach was becoming suspicious to the other.

The appearance of another man interrupted the conversation.  He gestured to the pilot to come over. It was minutes before the pilot returned to Cecil. Wiping his hands on a greasy cloth, he seemed to appraise the chemist closely.

In his anxiety to be gone, Cecil exhibited a nervous fidget as he shifted from one foot to the other and glanced, once, back over his shoulder. Physically, he was not unprepossessing with his coarse brown hair and stocky build. An intense man, Cecil
’
s alert dark eyes stared at the pilot as he awaited the man
’
s decision.

“
Sorry, I can
’
t do anything for you,
”
said the pilot.

“
Wait,
”
protested Cecil.
“
I said I
’
d pay you—more money than you
’
d earn in a dozen flights.
”
He glanced out toward the runway at the shiny small plane.

“
You from near Los Angeles?
”
asked the man suspiciously.
“
I just got told about what happened.
”
He looked up at the sky as though expecting visible evidences of the disaster.

Reluctant to admit to his reason for haste, but knowing that the pilot now understood, Cecil admitted,
“
Yes. I was pretty near when White Water had the explosion. The freeways are going to be jammed soon with people trying to escape. I want to beat the rush.
”

The pilot nodded and switched his gaze to the horizon.
“
It
’
s going to be bad, they say.
”
Returning to Cecil, he remarked,
“
Look bud, out there is a twin engine Comanche, fueled up and ready to go. But when it leaves this strip it
’
s going to have me and my family aboard.
”

“
You
’
ll have room for an extra passenger?
”
asked Cecil hopefully.

Shaking his head, the pilot began moving away.
“
Man, I won
’
t even be able to get all my family in that cabin. You
’
re out of luck.
”

Cecil stepped in closer and grabbed the pilot
’
s shoulder.
“
Listen, you won
’
t make this much money again on a single flight. I
’
ll triple what you think a trip to Mexico is worth.
”

Without looking at him, the man answered,
“
Sorry....you don
’
t have that much money.
”
Noticing the chemist
’
s car, he said,
“
Drive out. That
’
s what everybody else will have to do.
”

It became apparent, as the man started rapidly walking away, that his answer was final. As he got into the car, Cecil thought of the gun that he had. He could force the man to fly him out. With the muzzle of that pistol in his ribs, the pilot would have to do it. But what if the guy got obstinate? There
’
s no telling what he
’
d do at five thousand feet.
“
Hey!
”

The pilot hesitated and turned back.
“
Yeah?
”

Cecil had his arm through the window of the car, his fingers gripped around the handle of the gun as it rested on the seat.

The pilot was waiting, but Cecil couldn
’
t bring himself to raise the weapon into sight. Realizing the uselessness of further arguing, he let the gun drop and the pilot continued on to his truck. In a few seconds the vehicle was kicking gravel against the bed as it raced past Cecil and out toward the highway.

Sitting dejectedly in the car, Cecil began mentally, researching other avenues of escape open to him. Every additional minute of exposure to the radiation would do excessive damage to his tissues, and yet, the quickest escape route was now obviously closed to him, he knew. By-passing the freeway and driving the county roads would take him forever to get away from the area, and deciding that he knew what to expect by going due east, he elected to go in another direction. The trip was approximately a hundred and forty miles by freeway, but that route was out. The freeway would be packed. He
’
d have to travel backroads even if it would probably double the distance. With decisiveness, he headed the car south.

             
             
             
             
Chapter Four

San Mirado
’
s main street was coming to life. Local coffee shops had unlatched their doors for the early morning trade. The post office and department of motor vehicles had opened at eight, but excluding these and several service stations, no other shops were prepared for daily business as yet; a typical pace of the downtown of a suburban, bedroom community.

Downtown was no more active than the surrounding subdivision. However, there suburban housewives had seen their husbands off to work and their children on their way to school. With the day stretching before her, Paula Waring had called across the fence and invited Flo Winton over for coffee. It was a not unusual practice that the two shared—spending some time in the morning over a breakfast roll while they traded gossip. For Paula the kaffeklatsch frequently was the highlight of her day.

They were sitting across the dinette table sipping the hot brew when the quaking began. Coffee sloshed out of the cups as the two women stared at each other, both firmly gripping the edge of the table top. The shaking movements ended within seconds. In San Mirado it had been felt as a relatively mild tremor.

“
Whew,
”
Flo laughed nervously.
“
For a moment there I thought this was going to be the big one.
”

Paula was more annoyed than concerned over the tremor. Getting to her feet she straightened a picture that had been knocked askew and then tore off paper towels to swab up the spilled coffee.

“
Damn. Wouldn
’
t you know it.
”
Paula stopped her mopping motions and pointed.
“
Look at the end of the coffee-cake.
”
There was a large soggy spot in the pastry. Coffee had spilled onto the plate and soaked in.
“
And I just bought that yesterday! Frank thinks I made it,
”
she added as an afterthought.

Flo nodded knowingly as she cut off the wet end and found a clean plate for the rest of the pastry. Once everything seemed in place again Paula poured them a fresh batch of coffee and they took their seats. Except for a tinge of nerves, nothing had altered the outlook for the morning. Paula sliced the crusty pastry and was shoving it toward Flo as the second vibration hit the house, cracking a large window in the dinette.