Aftershocks: a Novel

By Shirley Linkhart

A Southern Oregon mother struggles for survival after a massive earthquake leaves her trapped beneath her isolated home. She escapes the ranch house and, for the next three days overcomes extreme obstacles to travel toward her eighteen-year-old daughter in school 350 miles away. She's heard on the radio that students are being evacuated because Mt. Hood is having tremors, but does not know that her daughter is attempting to drive home. Both women repeatedly outwit evil men, icy weather, and unforeseen difficulties to find each other amid the mayhem as their stories unfold.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781618421548

Book preview

Oregon

CHAPTER ONE

Late that December evening, Georgia Kaminski gasped as the first tremor rocked their Sunny Valley home. She held that breath as the earthquake, like an ocean wave, rolled across her living room.

Books spilled, lampshades rattled and the vertical blinds chattered on the living room windows.

"Skiii! She gave a horrified yell at her dozing husband. Earthquake!"

Looking confused, Ski scrambled from his recliner with outstretched arms. His gaze swept the room then he eyed her and smiled.

It’s okay, Georgia Anne. He patted her clenched hand as he moved past to shut off the blaring television. It’s over already.

She’d frozen in her chair, fingernails dug in, certain that earth changes she’d long feared were now upon them.

Damn it, Ski, it’s not over. This is just the beginning.

Take it easy, honey. For a few seconds, Ski stood beside her, stroked her shoulders then unclenched her hands and pulled her up. Come on, let’s see what crashed out there. Calm as always, he pulled her along toward their large family kitchen.

On shaky legs, she let him lead her, but when they reached the doorway she jerked away and rushed to her desk to call eighteen-year-old Callie. She’d been on Georgia’s mind constantly since September when she’d driven away to college—at the far end of the state.

Oh, no! She shoved the phone at Ski’s face. It’s dead. Why the hell can’t we have a cell phone like everyone else?

Gently, he pulled the receiver from her hand. Now honey, you know the answer to that. Someday there’ll be a cell tower out here. The power’s still on … our phone’ll be fixed in no time. He pushed a lock of hair from her face, slid his fingers down her cheek, and shook his head. That quake couldn’t have been more than a four.

How can you say that? She turned her back. "For all you know it was a nine in Portland." Staring into the night, fists pressed to her pounding chest, she conjured up every scene she’d ever imagined about this moment. Deep in her gut, she knew this was the beginning of the end. The Pacific Ring of Fire had awakened. That certainty jelled in her mind, and all-consuming fear for Callie sent prickles up the back of her head.

Reflected in the window, she saw him sweep his hand toward the top of their Christmas tree. Look here. It didn’t even tilt Grandma’s angel.

She whirled on him. To hell with your angel. What about Callie? Her voice broke. "Our child … could be hurt."

For crying out loud, Georgia. She’s just fine. Probably sound asleep in her bed.

Just then, the floor rolled, the tree trembled as if blasted by wind. Georgia held her breath, watched silver balls tumble and crash into shiny pieces, and heard the deep rumble of another quake. Terror penetrated her spine, paralyzed her legs, and she dropped to her knees. The second shock so soon erased any doubt.

It’s okay. Just a little aftershock … much smaller, Ski said.

Her voice came out high-pitched. No. It’s started. Michael Scallion was right. The west coast will crumble into the ocean!

Ski reached around her waist and lifted her. Honey, you can’t believe what you hear on damn talk radio … earth changes and all that crapola.

A burst of anger set her cheeks afire. "Damn it. It’s not just that. My dreams … I’ve seen it a dozen times. Nostradamus and Edgar Cayce said—"

Stop. Ski’s eyes flashed. Listen to me. People predict that crazy stuff all the time. This earthquake will pass and nothing more will happen. He grabbed her arms and tried to look into her face. You just work yourself up. Cause your dreams. I’ve been listening to this for months, I’m sick of it.

She pulled away, rigid with anger. Are you trying to make me feel stupid? Pretend nothing is happening? Lots of people believe it. What makes you so damn all-knowing?

Ski spoke softly, reached out to her. You’re acting a little crazy.

Months earlier, in August, she’d become frantic. She’d wanted the three of them to pull up stakes and move to Montana—a place declared safe by present-day prophets. Ski had put his foot down, said it was nonsense and that he’d never leave the farm.

She’d tried for months to force it from her mind, tried to believe she’d brought on the prophetic dreams, as Ski had said. But how could she? The destruction had begun.

"No. She whirled on Ski. We’re getting out. Tonight. Now. She rushed toward the stairs. I’m packing."

Stop! Ski grabbed her wrist firmly as she passed by. Just settle down, Georgia. There might be a couple more rumbles, but the worst is over. We’re not going off in the middle of the night.

"Yes, I am. She jerked away. I’m going to Gresham and get Callie."

He caught her arm at the foot of the stairs. Honey, please talk sense. He started up the steps, pulling her along. Let’s get our night-clothes. If you’d feel better, we can sleep down here in the guest room, and tomorrow—

A deafening roar—loud as a rocket launch—sucked up his words.

The ground heaved.

She was slammed to the bottom step. There she lay, curled into a ball, eyes squeezed shut. Oh, Jesus. She couldn’t hear it, but felt the prayer leave her throat.

Ski crumpled beside her.

Minutes passed. Long minutes of horrifying movement and sound—as if the Shasta Daylighter Express was screaming through their house. Windows exploded. Nails screeched from boards. Lumber snapped like rifle shots. Debris peppered their heads.

Georgia plugged her ears and murmured prayers as the thunder faded and the last shattered glass tinkled to a stop.

Total darkness.

Total silence.

Then she heard Ski’s raspy breath and reached for him. Are you all right? No answer.

Coughing, her throat clogged with plaster dust, she shook him. Wake up. Wake up. Blindly, she moved shaking hands over his body, found his face and flung away chunks of plaster.

Attempting to rise, she crashed headlong into something sharp. Lights sparked behind her eyelids, and she felt a trickle of blood course down her forehead and off the side of her eyebrow. She wiped it away with her sweater sleeve.

Plopped down on the second step, blinking back tears of pain, she explored the object she’d hit—a broken, jagged board. Inches above her head wreckage formed a ceiling. She stretched out her arms and found the same on all sides. They were trapped—sealed in a prison of plasterboard and lumber.

Damn you, rotten old house.

She gasped when she discovered a broken timber pressed into Ski’s pelvic area. It extended from overhead and pinned him where he’d landed. Her stomach convulsed with a sob at the sticky wetness she felt as she grabbed his hand.

Blindly she struggled in the tiny space, pulled and jerked on the timber. then pounded the walls.

Damn it. Think of something, she shouted. No answer came.

Calmed somewhat by her tirade, it came to her to apply pressure to his groin to stop the bleeding. She slid her hands all around where the timber connected. Besides a small wet spot near his hand, she found nothing, which she hoped meant the timber had stopped any bleeding.

Sweaty and exhausted, she dropped her head to Ski’s chest and let the tears come—until she felt him touch her hair. Thank God, you’re back. Raising her head, she found his face and kissed him gently. Does it hurt bad?

His answer came, soft as a church whisper, Georgia, are you—?

Shhh. I’m fine. Don’t talk.

I can’t move, Georgia Anne. It’s my … His voice faded.

Your bleeding has stopped, Ski. Hang on, someone will be here soon. She lowered her ear to his face.

I’m so cold, Mamma, I … His voice trailed off in a sigh.

She pulled off her sweater, covered his shoulders and lay across his body in only her bra. Lying there, her mind resisted thoughts of a future without her husband of twenty years and she moaned.

Don’t you leave me, Sergei Kaminski. She stroked his face and softly begged, Stay with me. We’ll be all right.

Through freezing hours of frightening aftershocks that rattled the old house, they lay together at the foot of the stairs. Sometimes panic welled up in her. Doubts wormed their way into her dark world. Could Ski survive until they were rescued? What would she do without him? Each time that thought came she told herself to stop, just stop thinking like a helpless child.

She’d taken care of herself before Ski, long before he’d found her in Denver. She’d worked, escaped the hideous poverty of her childhood. With Ski’s father-like attention she’d become soft, but she’d never forgotten how to take care of herself and she’d take care of him.

Outside, rain drummed the roof, and somewhere in the wreckage she heard water running—at first a drip, then a stream. Her thirst grew. The acrid smell of her fear hung heavy in the closeness, and she cursed herself for having no solution.

Ski pulled heat from her body as the night dragged on. She rubbed his cold arms and spoke to him in gentle tones. Remember two winters ago in Maui, the three of us? You were so handsome … all tan, in your Hawaiian shirt, learning the hula with Callie. She laughed softly. After the luau you took me on that moonlight stroll down the beach. You were so romantic and I was so pleased. You’d already picked the place, stashed the blanket. After we made love, we stared at the stars half the night. She hugged his arm. Everything’s going to be fine. They’ll come.

Crunched there beside her husband, aches and pains filled her existence, especially a burning spot on her leg. She probed with her cold-numbed fingers, and just above her anklebone discovered a puncture wound the size of a nickel. Her stocking was sticky, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped.

Teeth chattering, she often tried to rouse Ski. C-c-can you hear me? We’ll be fine, sweetheart. Lips next to his ear, she whispered and kissed his cheek between sentences. They’ll get us out soon. We’ll get you to the hospital. I’m so sorry I yelled at you last night. Hang on.

Over and over, she repeated her mantra. We’ll be all right.

Sometimes, from deep inside her thoughts, she imagined she heard voices and she’d yell, Help. Somebody help. She knew her shouts, muffled by the wreckage, carried no further than a baby’s whimper.

Sometimes she slept, and fragments of everyday dreams warmed her. She saw Ski pushing Callie in the tire swing and the three of them cruising in the Caribbean. Then, waking with a start, she’d again check Ski’s pulse with the lighted-dial watch he’d given her. That precious blue glow was her only link with reality in her black world—a world so black her eyes ached.

At dawn, a severe aftershock jolted her from sleep. She whimpered and clung to Ski as the steps under her rolled. The house cracked and snapped over her head. When the clamor and creaking wood settled and the plaster dust cleared, she got her first dim view of their cell. Gradually, stronger light penetrated the rubble near her feet and she was able to examine Ski’s injury. The four by four inch timber, broken away from somewhere above them, pushed deep into his groin between his hipbones. She couldn’t move the timber and wasn’t able to tell if it had broken any bones. Unless there was blood beneath him, it hadn’t penetrated his skin.

"Goddamn it! Where is everyone? My husband is dying!" Yelling hurt her dry throat—and seemed so useless.

With more light, she tried to understand what had happened to them. She had believed wooden houses would withstand earthquakes, but in the thirties when the farmhouse was built, building codes were nonexistent—then they’d added the new part.

She studied their cage. The solid sheet above her was the color of the hall ceiling. A jumble of shattered plasterboard with broken two-by-fours attached formed the walls. The beam that crushed Ski came in diagonally, between the wall and the ceiling joist.

Below, near Ski’s feet, shafts of light shone through. The opening, more than a foot high, quickened her heartbeat—maybe a way out. She dropped her shoulders, took deep breaths and tried to relax enough to stop her uncontrolled shivering.

She tucked her sweater around him and spoke into his ear, even though she knew he might not hear. Ski, I’m going for help. I’ll get you out. Hang on.

Lying back on the two steps, she hip-walked into the opening until she was up to her thighs. She then dropped her behind from the bottom step, pushed with her arms until her hips were compressed in the passageway. As she wriggled deeper, her skirt climbed up around her waist. Like bear’s claws, broken edges of debris scraped her thighs. The pain meant nothing.

Arms above her head, she squirmed deeper. Her breasts were crushed and her bra snagged on something. Gasping for breath, she writhed and twisted loose, but as she squirmed forward her bunched-up skirt pressed painfully against her ribs. Struggling to expand her chest, panic washed over her. She fought for control.

Oh, God. What was I thinking? she murmured into her chest.

Flat on her back, and up to her chin in the opening, she lay with her elbows wedged against her ears and tried to take a breath. When she couldn’t, hysteria overtook her. An animal-like shriek escaped her clenched jaws.

The house was crushing the life out of her.

Chapter Two

In her apartment, unaware of the earthquake, Callie Kaminski hummed Christmas songs while she put on her jeans, Reeboks and sweater then topped off with a wool blazer. Tomorrow she’d be heading home—three whole weeks of only-child pampering. Christmas presents. Cookies and cocoa. Warming by the fire. All that time at home enjoying her Sleep Number bed. She couldn’t stop smiling.

The studio apartment she and her mother had chosen in a complex a few blocks from Mount Hood Community College was austere, much different from her bright and spacious room in Sunny Valley.

While still a junior in high school, she’d picked Mount Hood instead of her father’s alma mater, Oregon State. Her girlfriend’s older brother had attended MHCC’s two-year multimedia arts program and landed an exciting job with Portland’s Channel 2.

Ever since her father gave her a Sony Hi-8 in third grade, she’d shot miles of videotape on every event at school, at church, and on worldwide travels with her parents. She’d later won awards in high school for her work with narrative short films.

Callie knew her parents humored her, expected her to move into a serious field of study after she got filmmaking off her mind. She’d humored them in return, hinting that after she finished two years at MHCC, she’d probably take up business at OSU like her dad.

When she arrived at the school’s cafeteria, she heard the buzz. What’s going on? she asked the cashier as she paid.

Someone behind her answered. Big earthquake.

When? She looked from one to the other, instantly aware of her mother’s constant earthquake dreams.

Didn’t you feel it last night? About eleven?

Where? Her stomach tightened.

Southern Oregon, just off the coast, a boy said as the line of kids pushed her along. She went weak in the knees, dropped her protein bar in the trash, and rushed to the television set in the lounge. Kids six deep jammed any view. She stood back, hearing words like tsunami … largest quake in Oregon’s recorded history. She leaned against a wall for support, clamped one hand over her mouth and listened.

No communications.

Oh, no. Mamma? Poppy?

Though their remote ranch had no cell service, her parents had provided her with an unlimited long distance cell plan and they spoke at least three times a week. Callie’s mother wanted her to call every night, but her dad said that was ridiculous.

Her heart thudding, she moved to a quiet location and pulled her phone from her backpack. When she pressed the only number she’d ever called, in less than a second no service appeared.

No service! Why no service?

She hit the number again, same result. She couldn’t get her mind around no service. Was it because her parents’ landline was down?

Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. Goose bumps popped out on Callie’s arms.

Standing back, fighting tears, she squeezed the phone until her fingers hurt. All around her kids moved along toward classes as if nothing had happened. She wanted someone who knew something, someone who knew what to do. She wanted her parents.

Clutching her phone, she ran the four blocks back to her apartment. Her stomach churned and she rushed to the bathroom sink, stood with her head down and splashed cold water on her face.

The need to go home consumed her. She jerked her suitcase from the closet and tossed it on the bed. Standing with her hand on its zipper tab, she stared at her laptop, lying closed on the table. When her computer had let her down during an edit the day before, she didn’t try too hard to get it booted—figuring her dad would straighten it out when she arrived home.

Damn you computer! Just when I need news.

With a sigh, she calmly placed the suitcase back in the closet and forced herself to relax as she gazed out the window at beautiful, snow-covered Mount Hood.

After several minutes, she plopped on the bed and sat staring into space. Realizing she’d reverted to her childhood habit of chewing her long hair, she jerked her hand away and sat on it.

Calm down. Think. What else can I do?

She could find out more at school than by sitting and redialing her phone. Besides, she still had finals. After a quick look in the mirror, she hurried to her first class. The room was filled with sober faces as the instructor expressed his regrets to Callie and a couple other students. He said he’d make an announcement as soon as class convened.

When the room quieted, he said, Due to Christmas break, finals won’t be postponed, but those of you from southern Oregon or the coast may be excused. Because of slides and road damage, it will be impossible for some of you to get to your homes. We request you remain on campus today, either attend your usual classes or gather in the student lounge so that you can be located. As communications to these areas are restored and we hear from your parents, you will be further advised.

Crap, what are we, babies? someone behind her said.

Maybe the teacher’s announcement wasn’t too welcome to those unaffected, but it was information. Because Callie cut herself no slack and good grades came easy, she chose to take the final. She’d simply go crazy sitting in her room waiting for the phone to ring.

As she struggled to keep her concentration, a student was called from class and returned in tears, gathered her papers and left. For a moment Callie’s chin quivered and tears blurred the page. She had to regain her focus in the ten minutes she had to finish, had to clear her mind of terrible pictures.

Stop! They’re all right. They’ll call in five minutes.

Each time the door opened her heart fluttered.

At lunchtime, she ran to her apartment, checking her cell for service or messages as she ran. Nothing.

Her single bed stood near the room’s convenience kitchen. She opened the midget refrigerator but had no appetite, just stood in its open door and stared at the desk drawer that held her car keys.

Damn it.

She jerked open the drawer and grabbed them.

I can be home by dark.

But the roads are closed.

Who says?

She dropped her keys back in the still-open drawer and picked up the phone book to dial the Oregon State Police. The call went through, but the recorded answer, If you have an emergency, dial 911. If not, try your call later, enraged her.

She slammed down the phone book and yelled, "Aren’t there any real people anymore? Can’t even call the damn police."

Defeated, she tried her parents’ number once more before she headed back to campus. A sob caught in her throat as she gently closed her phone and went out the door.

A friend she’d made while running after-school laps dropped in beside her as she jogged back. They discussed the quake and the girl said, If it was me, I’d head for home.

What good would that do? she snapped. She knew she was rude, but didn’t care. I’d be stuck somewhere … my folks would be worried sick. I’m going to my classes, then stay here and wait. They’ll call, she said, with a prayer in her heart. Of course they’d call. She knew she was the most important person in their lives.

They’re probably on their way here right now.

After her last class, she went straight to the student lounge where nearly a dozen kids sat watching the earthquake coverage on CNN. Fists clutched so tight her arms ached, she watched a windblown reporter on a brick-strewn street, interviewing an old woman. How did she feel? Where was she when it hit?

Callie’s stomach tightened with impatience as the reporter droned on.

Leave that poor woman alone. Show me the pictures, damn it.

A crawl across the bottom of the screen warned of highway closures. Among many from the coastal area, she saw: I-5 NORTH OF YREKA, SOUTH OF CANYONVILLE. Canyonville was less than fifteen miles from her turnoff.

Sure her parents would arrive any moment, she turned away and left for her apartment. She stopped at the corner mini-mart and bought an Oregonian newspaper with headlines two inches high. 89 KNOWN DEAD, HUNDREDS MISSING. She ran full out the rest of the way home with 89 known dead repeating with the beat of her feet.

Just inside her door, breathing hard, she tried her call again. Same maddening lack of service. The towers must be down.

She dropped into her only chair and looked in horror at several pages of pictures in the newspaper. Pictures taken from the air showed piles of wreckage on the beaches—a scramble of cars and houses. I-5’s long overpass in Medford lay on its side like a crippled centipede.

Oh, God! There’s so much smoke.

A shot from some high point in Grants Pass showed the old Caveman Bridge missing one of its arches—the remaining two stood like a gray McDonalds’ sign in the middle of the Rogue River.

Oh, no! The bridge.

She traced the arches with her fingertip. Catastrophic thoughts invaded her mind, thoughts of facing an up-side-down world without her mother and father. Sickened, she dropped the newspaper to the floor and hugged her legs. Fear filled her chest and weakened her arms. Forehead resting on her knees, she rocked and prayed. Please, God, keep them safe. Please, please, God.

After a few minutes, she told herself to quit acting like a baby and she gathered the paper from the floor. She studied each picture again, touching things that were not destroyed.