Half Life

By Scott Skipper

Two strangers find themselves isolated from their former lives by a plume of lethal radiation that splits California in two. All the flights are grounded, ships can’t cross it, the highways are impassible, and Jamie has nothing—no money, no identification, no credit, not even shoes. Can she depend on the kindness of a stranger? Does he need the responsibility? How will they put their lives back together, and who will put the state back together? Half Life is an apocalyptic love story and a chilling possibility.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Skipper
• Release date: Sep 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370316090

Scott Skipper

Scott Skipper is a California fiction writer with a broad range of interests, including history, genealogy, travel, science and current events. His wry outlook on life infects his novels with biting sarcasm. Prisoners are never taken. Political correctness is taboo. His work includes historical fiction, alternative history, novelized biography, science fiction and political satire. He is a voracious reader and habitual and highly opinionated reviewer.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Dammit, he said aloud and speed dialed his wife. Hi, honey, I just got a call from San Onofre. I have to go down there. I’m going to be late.

This time of day? Can’t you send somebody else? his wife asked.

I’m the only one authorized. You know how they are about jumping when they call.

I thought that place was closed.

I guess they still have to maintain it. Don’t bitch. This is what feeds your Nordstrom habit. Go ahead and eat.

No, call when you leave there, and I’ll start thinking about dinner.

Okay. Bye. Before replacing the receiver, he punched the intercom button and told his office manager where he was going. He checked his aluminum Haliburton briefcase for the things he would need: sketchpad, tape measure, pencils, a good plastic eraser, and his site badge. He snapped the case shut, took his hardhat from the hook, and left by his private entrance.

He negotiated the Range Rover onto the freeway. In the middle of the afternoon, traffic was already thickening. The 5 Freeway repeatedly slowed to a stop. It was going to be a very long day. After San Clemente, he exited at Basilone Road and followed Old Pacific Highway to the main entrance of the decommissioned nuclear generating station. At the guard shack, he held his site badge out the window and asked where to find his contact, Jerry Ortega.

The guard said, Let me check, sir, and put his phone to his ear. A minute later he said, Center trailer in the contractors’ area on the left side of the employees’ lot.

Thanks, Eric said and drove to the cluster of temporary offices. Christ, what it must cost to keep this place sitting here—doing nothing. He grabbed his case, slipped on his hardhat, and clipped the photo ID onto his shirt pocket. The air beside the sea was pleasantly cool. He climbed the steps and pulled the trailer’s door open. Inside, the air was icy. I’m looking for Jerry Ortega.

You found him. Industrial Fabricators I take it.

Yep, Eric Day.

They shook hands, and Eric sat in the visitor’s chair next to Ortega’s desk. Welcome to San Onofre Nuclear Generating Station, SONGS. Relax for a minute, he said. I have to get you an escort.

Make it a blond, will you? Eric said grinning.

Ortega spoke briefly on the phone, then he said to Eric, I did better than a blond.

What do mean?

Wait and see.

To pass the minutes waiting for the security escort to arrive, they chatted about the Dodgers, and Eric promised Ortega a set of tickets next season. The door of the trailer opened and a woman in her twenties entered. Ortega saw the expression on Eric’s face and covered his mouth to hide a smirk. She could have been Sophia Loren’s daughter—a dark haired, classic, sensual beauty in blue jeans, tee shirt, Day-Glo orange vest, and a hardhat. She said, Hi, I’m Jamie, and shook hands with Eric.

It’s a pleasure. I’m Eric.

Where do you want me to take him? she asked Ortega.

Unit One coolant intake trash guard.

Cool, an afternoon at the beach. Eric, you ready? Follow me.

I’d follow you anywhere, he thought, smiling, with his gaze locked on her perfect features. Lead on.

We don’t have to go through the containment area, so you won’t need a film badge, she said, taking him down a flight of tread plate steps.

So, why are we worried about the coolant intake if the place is decommissioned? he asked, while she unlocked a gate in the perimeter wall.

She looked slightly surprised. All the fuel’s still here. We have to keep it cool.

Really? I thought it was buried in some hollow mountain in Nevada.

No, the last administration nixed that idea, and the shiny-headed governor won’t let it be transported on the highways, even in dry casks.

What are dry casks? he asked.

Semi-permanent storage vessels. Good for about thirty years.

So, it’s a smaller risk to let it sit here with several million people all around it?

You got it. Oh, good. I wasn’t sure the tide was out. There’s the trash grate. It stood just beyond the low tide line. The thing was a cylindrical cage of galvanized rectangular tubes with a conical cap of rectangular bars.

Crap. Somebody could have told me to bring a bathing suit.

She laughed lightly. It sounded pretty. It’s not very deep, but if you want to strip to your shorts, I won’t be offended.

Thanks, but I’ll just roll my pants up and take my chances. He sat on the warm sand to untie his shoes. Can I ask you a personal question?

You can ask. I might answer.

Why are you schlepping around doing gopher work at a decommissioned power plant instead of modeling or working in films?

That drew a full throaty laugh. Aren’t you sweet? It’s because I go to school at night to be a nuclear engineer.

Really? Isn’t the nuclear industry on its way out?

Maybe for generating electricity, but we still make bombs, and somebody has to take care of those fuel rods for the next hundred and eighty thousand years or so.

Huh? Well, good for you. Can you take notes for me? I don’t think I can handle a tape, a pad, and a pencil while keeping them all dry.

I can help you. She bent to unlace her work boots. I’m not as big a prude as you, she said, unzipping her jeans and pushing them down her silky thighs.

Eric’s eyes showed white all around the corneas when he saw the shape of those legs.

It’ll give the watchmen something to talk about.

It was his turn to laugh. Whatever you say. Okay, then, do you mind holding the dumb end of the tape?

That sounds like a sexist remark. Where do I hold it?

Hook it on the edge of this tube. He walked the tape around the structure while the little wavelets lapped at the rolled cuffs of his pants. When he reached where she held the ‘dumb end,’ his pant legs were wet to the crotch. Shit, he said, I should have followed your example.

Told you.

Two hundred and twenty-six and three-sixteenth inches. She released the end of the tape and gave him the sketchpad. He noted the circumference, the height of the cylinder and the cone, the dimensions of the tubes and the bars and had to force himself not to gawk at her lower torso.

Is that it? she asked.

One more thing. He handed her the pad and reached into the water between two bars. I’ve got to see what kind of flange this thing is mounted on. Bending to feel for the flange, his eyes lowered to the level of her panties. He could not prevent them from stealing a long, furtive look. As he felt around the periphery of the grate, counting the nuts he encountered, he was able to manage a few more stealthy glances. Okay, eight bolts, inch thick flange—back to terra firma.

She had a shop towel in the hip pocket of her jeans, which she used to dry her legs. She handed it to him as she started to pull on her pants.

You came better prepared than I did, he said.

Always prepared, that’s my motto.

Isn’t that the Boy Scouts’ motto?

Maybe. Hey what’s that? She pointed down the beach.

His eyes followed where she pointed. Probably a dead seal.

I hope you’re right. Let’s make sure.

The shape being buffeted by the small waves appeared to be fifty yards from them. She started for it at a trot. Puzzled, he left his case and shoes and followed.

The body was clearly not a sea lion. It was over twenty feet long and serpent-like. Holy shit, he said, that’s an oarfish.

I know, she said, this is bad.

Well, it’s bad for the oarfish, but we should be okay.

Maybe not. There was another one here yesterday.

Then it’s probably the same one.

No, we called the Long Beach Aquarium to come get it. I saw them take it away.

It must be pretty rare for these things to wash up on the beach.

It’s damned rare, and the same thing happened just before the Fukushima earthquake.

You don’t believe that, do you?

These are deep sea fish. Only one has ever been seen in its natural environment, and several of them washed ashore near the epicenter just before the quake. The Japanese believe this is a precursor to a quake.

Sounds like an old wives’ tale to me.

Whether it is or not, I have to report it. She keyed the mic of the small walkie-talkie clipped to the lapel of her vest. George, you copy?

The tinny voice on the radio said, Go ahead.

It’s Jamie. We’ve got another oarfish.

You’re kidding.

No, I’m standing right next to it.

Okay. Don’t let it float away. I’ll call the aquarium.

Roger. She gave Eric an apologetic look. I have to stay here until the aquarium people arrive, and I can’t let you go back through the plant without me.

What if we just drag it higher on the sand?

We can do that, but I still have to stay here. I should be able to find another escort for you. Let’s try to move it.

The tail proved too slippery to grip, so they moved to the head and each grabbed a gill.

Yuck, Jamie said. This is gross.

It’s a good thing it’s dead.

This thing weighs a ton.

Eric put his back into it, and they were barely able to turn the huge eel-shaped carcass. That was the second the shockwave passed under their feet, and they both lost their grip and fell backwards on the wet sand.

Waves of energy pulsed across the ground, and Eric could see them rising up the twenty-five-foot wall of the power plant. He looked at Jamie. She started to rise but the rolling sand tripped her again.

Dammit, she shouted over the roaring, it’s the big one.

Eric made it to his hands and knees, but the shaking prevented him from rising any farther. I hope the sand doesn’t liquefy, he shouted as much to himself as to her.

You could have gone all day without saying that.

Sorry. Take my hand.

Why?

He was momentarily stuck for an answer. What if it liquefies under just one of us? Besides, I’d like to hold your hand.

Through his vertigo, he saw her smile, and reach for his hand. Oh, my God, how long can it last?

Your fishy Fukushima quake lasted three minutes. I think the Alaska quake lasted over four. He tried to look at his watch but could not hold still enough to read it.

It already seems like a lifetime.

Over the rumbling coming from the fractured earth, he heard alarms wailing on the other side of the tall wall. Farther south, just beyond the limit of the plant, the bluffs were crumbling onto the beach. Looking the opposite way, the agitation on the surface of the sea resembled the roiling boil in a pot of water. The breaking waves lost all definition. They shook and foamed without rolling forward.

A crash riveted their attention in its direction. A crack opened in the perimeter wall, and the fissure continued across the sand into the water that parted, looking perhaps like the Red Sea. An instant later, it snapped shut, causing a geyser of sandy water to erupt several times his height.

That doesn’t look good. Jamie pointed at the crack in the wall. They designed this place to withstand seven-point-oh.

They should have shot for an even ten.

Nothing could survive ten. The planet would split in two.

I was joking. How secure are the fuel rods?

Seven-point-oh secure. If the pools crack or the pumps fail, it’s meltdown time.

That’s worse than being swallowed by liquefied sand.

Yeah, we have to evacuate the area.

We can’t even stand.

It has to stop sometime.

I love an optimist.

How long has it been? It’s getting to me, she asked.

I don’t know. How long would it take the fuel rods to melt down?

It wouldn’t be instantaneous. Out of water, maybe half an hour.

You know there’s going to be a tsunami.

I know, but that’s another thing you didn’t have to say.

Shit, think about how bad the aftershocks are going to be.

She tugged on his hand. Let’s hope this isn’t a foreshock.

Now, you’re the one stating the unthinkable.

I’m getting seasick.

Me too.

Eric, I’m afraid. Can you hold me?

He pulled her to him and held her sideways on his lap. If you’re going to be sick—

She lost it. Still heaving, she said, I’m sorry. I couldn’t—

It’s okay. My pants were wet anyway.

Poor San Clemente, she sobbed.

Is that where you live?

It was. There can’t be anything left of it. Her sobbing increased.

We’re going to be fine, Jamie. Everybody will be in the same boat. We just have to get through it and carry on.

Look out for the—

Water—an open palm slapped the side of his face. Water, salt, and sand poured into his nose, mouth, and ears.

Chapter 2

When his senses returned, Jamie was standing in shallow water, pulling his arm. Eric choked and sputtered as she hauled him to his feet.

Tsunami— he began but lapsed into a coughing fit.

No, she said, it was just a wave. The shaking has stopped. Let’s get the hell out of here. She began wading up the beach still holding his arm.

At the wall, she turned her key in the deadbolt and pushed as she depressed the handle. Crap. There must be debris piled against it. She keyed the mic of her radio. George, you copy? She got no reply. We need to get off this beach. There’s bound to be a tsunami. This way. We have a boat.

He followed her along the curving wall to a launch ramp and a rollup door. She removed a padlock from the chain and pulled on it.

I’m surprised it’s not stuck. The boat appeared to be a twenty-foot Whaler with inboard drive. She said, We usually launch it with a vehicle. Do you think we can push it?

There’s a ramp. It’s downhill. Let’s give it a try.

Oh, there’s one more thing. Can you hotwire it?

With what? My teeth?

You’re dealing with the super anal, rate-payer-gouging power company. There. She pointed to a tall toolbox. In it was a complete set of mechanic’s tools—everything was stainless steel.

He climbed on board and felt under the dashboard. The ignition wires were unprotected, so he cut, stripped, and twisted them together. All right, let’s launch it. She helped him wheel it into the surf, and a wave floated it free of the trailer. Eric crawled into the engine compartment with a screwdriver. He found the starter and shorted the solenoid terminal against the housing. Sparks flew as the Bendix engaged. The engine fired first try. Jamie engaged the gears and pushed the throttle forward.

You’re a good boat thief, she said making a turn to the left. You look strange. Are you all right?

He hesitated to answer. I’m not sure. I should know who you are but I don’t. Why did I help you steal this boat?

"Whoa, Eric, don’t get weird on me. I’m Jamie, remember? We just had a big earthquake and there’s a tsunami coming. That’s why we commandeered a boat."

I remember arriving at SONGS, then nothing until you told me to hotwire the boat.

Crap, you must have hit your head on the sand or something. You don’t remember measuring the trash grate, the oarfish, or the shaking?

No, I came here for a job?

Yes, do you know who you are?

I’m Eric Day. I own Industrial Fabricators.

Good. Good. I’m Jamie Cross. I’m your site escort, but now we’re running like hell because a giant wave is coming after a really big earthquake. Is it coming back to you?

He looked pained. Nothing after I drove past the guard.

That might not be a bad thing. Trust me, we’re in a damned big hurry to get to Oceanside.

San Clemente would be closer, he said.

Yeah, your long-term memory seems okay. Two things, I’m not ready to deal with San Clemente. It was where I lived, and I’m not ready to see the destruction. Two, it’s too close to SONGS if there’s a meltdown.

Meltdown? SONGS is decommissioned.

Oh, brother. Yeah, we went through this before. All the fuel is still here. Fourteen hundred metric tons. Much of it broken down into plutonium, cesium, and strontium. Nice stuff.

Can’t you make this tub go faster?

Jamie laughed. You may have lost an hour or so, but you didn’t lose your sense of humor.

How would we know if there’s a meltdown happening?

There’d be an explosion as the rods start to burn, but it’s too soon to have started. First the water has to drain out of the ponds, then the fuel rods have to ignite—although that wouldn’t take long. Here, use my phone to try to find a news bulletin. She took it from her hip pocket and offered it. I’m afraid you lost your phone and briefcase during the quake.

He poked at the display of her phone. No signal. The cell sites must have been knocked out.

That’s no surprise. I’m guessing the quake was at least an eight.

Shit. Everything will be a mess. How’d you get to be so savvy about atomic energy?

So, like a woman can’t be smart enough to know these things?

What I meant was, why are you an escort and not an engineer?

I guess I have to replay everything that happened before you came to. I’ve got a few more weeks of night classes before I get my degree.

Oh, uh, good for you.

Here, she said, take the wheel and keep your eyes on the road. I’ve got to hang it over the rail. She slipped to the stern. How rough do you think it will be in this little boat when the tsunami hits?

He started to turn to reply. Eyes forward, she barked.

Oops, sorry. A tsunami is a tidal rise. I don’t think it will be rough at all until it makes shore.

She returned to his side. You can look now. How would we know if the tide is flowing out yet?

See if you can tell by looking at the kelp.

She looked over the starboard rail. Oh, crap. Every leaf is pointing out to sea and straining in the current. How long before it turns around?

Hell if I know, but the longer it takes, the bigger it’s going to be.

Can’t you make this tub go any faster?

It was his turn to laugh. Jamie, my dear, if I were to choose a person to be with in a catastrophe, it would be you.

I’ll bet you say that to all the girls who run from tsunamis with you.

Of course, I do. How long did the shaking last?

Long enough to make me puke on your pants.

You’re kidding.

Nope. Look, there’s still some barf that didn’t get rinsed off. You were, however, a gentleman about it.

That’s a relief. I’ve often been a bit of a jerk in that situation.

Jamie laughed explosively. Oh, crap. Now, I’ve spit on you. She wiped at his sleeve with her hand.

You’re a fun date.

Yeah, you too. If I was alone, I’d be scared shitless. Not that I’m not, but having you here is comforting. She looked over her shoulder. Oh, shit, look.

An ugly brown cloud was rising from the defunct nuclear plant. The prevailing wind blew the top of it inland and slightly to the south.

Jamie said, I hope Oceanside is far enough south.

It’s going to have to be. Look.

The horizon was rising.

Oh, my God, that’s the scariest thing I’ve ever seen, she said.

I can see the breakwater.

Don’t go in the harbor.

Why not?

I know a better place just a little farther.

It better be damn little farther. That wall of water is growing fast.

Hang in there. We’re gonna make it.

If we don’t, we’re dead.

The apparent size of the wall of rocks that protected the yacht basin from Pacific storms increased at a glacial pace, while the looming wall of water grew exponentially. Eric banged on the throttle. It was pegged. The little craft fought the current flowing under it to feed the behemoth racing toward the stern.

I hope we don’t run out of water before we reach the shore, he said. The high water mark on the jetty was several feet above the current water level.

We’re gonna make it. I see the channel. They keep it dredged.

I hope.

There. Can you see it? Past the lifeguard tower.

I see it. Should I run aground?

No, keep going. We can reach the freeway. It’s elevated here. The channel flows under it.

They almost reached the freeway before they ran out of water. Eric steered toward the south bank of the channel until the props were spinning in mud, and forward progress died.

Time to run, he said and helped her over the side.

The mud was ankle deep. There was no way to run through it. The few yards to the rocks took an eternity as they fought to free each footstep from the sucking mire and watched the black mountain of water that was now racing ashore.

Eric reached the hard sand of the causeway and helped Jamie scale the boulders. Without exchanging a glance, both sprinted for the elevated roadway. The scramble up the steep bank landed them on a bike trail. The freeway stood on piles fifty feet over their heads.

Keep on the bike trail, Jamie said, winded.

We’re not high enough.

I know. Keep on the bike trail.

The man, who was a decade older, had trouble keeping pace. She looked over her shoulder, and he said, Keep those sexy legs pumping. I’ll make it. They passed under the highway, and Eric saw the wisdom of her plan. A big looping onramp sloped gradually to the road grade. Glad you know this place, he panted.

Yeah, I ride the bike trail a lot.

They scrambled up a steep but shallow bank and vaulted the guardrail. Cars were careening around the circular ramp, frantically trying to reach the freeway. A pickup truck screeched to a halt. The passenger stuck her head out the window and shouted, Get in.

Eric and Jamie, in unison, stepped onto the bumper and leaped the tailgate. The driver accelerated, reached the traffic lanes, made a hard left, forcing another car into the guardrail, and proceeded south on the shoulder of the northbound lanes as the water, carrying masses of debris, began flowing under the highway, and splashing over it.

Chapter 3

Eric raised his head above the bed of the truck. Shit, look.

Jamie sat also, in time to see a section of the road collapse taking a score of cars with it. Traffic was chaotic. They were going the wrong way with as much speed as conditions permitted. Seeing the road vanish, northbound drivers began turning back. Minor collisions crunched and screeched from all directions.

The woman in the cab opened the rear window and said, You two all right? Both nodded. We got a place at Borrego Springs. We’re trying to get to it. You got a place to go?

Eric said, No, you can just let us out on high ground.

We’ll pass through Vista. How does that sound? she asked.

That’s fine. Thanks for the ride, he said.

No problem. Hang on. Her husband laid on the horn and goosed the engine. They darted past a Volvo attempting to use the shoulder to execute a U-turn. His aggression got them to the Highway 78 onramp, which was clogged with drivers trying to get onto the freeway. He stayed to the shoulder but had to stop bumper-to-bumper with a Toyota. The stalemate lasted several minutes until the Toyota’s driver forced his way into the traffic lane. Their benefactor in the passenger seat shouted at the man through the open window, The road is out. You have to go back.

Off the San Diego Freeway, they were still on the wrong side of a divided highway, so they continued on the shoulder until the first onramp, where they crossed the overpass and got back on Highway 78 going the right way. At a mile from the beach, water was flooding a marshy area on the right side of the road, but traffic was flowing.

Jamie looked at her phone. Still no signal.

"It’s probably going to