Edge of Darkness, the Pacific Northwest Apocalypse

By Calvin Cahail

Nature will judge humankind as a mere pawn in her game or her most incredible creation.
The survivors of the United State largest natural disaster must survive the aftermath and themselves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Calvin Cahail
• Release date: Dec 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005452223

Calvin Cahail

Author: The Logical Choice: Tote Board Handicapping Made Easy; Professional Handicapper; member of the Horseplayers Association of North America.

Book preview

PART ONE

Apocalypse

[uh-pok-uh-lips] (n.)

Any larger-scale catastrophic event, or chain of detrimental events to humanity or nature. See also the Cascadia Subduction Event of 2021.

Chapter 1

STASH

IN THIS, THE NORTHWEST PACIFIC COAST'S darkest days, nature shall judge man a mere pawn in her game or her finest creation.

A ceiling of blue-gray clouds blocked the sun and cast a silver hue over Oregon's northwest corner. Fort Stevens State Park lies on a peninsula running north and south, its westward coast facing the Pacific Ocean. It met the great Columbia River on its eastward side.

The Barkers pulled into the parking lot. They looked forward to an exciting morning of family fun, clam digging at Fort Stevens. But there would be more excitement than they expected.

Jason, tall, slender, and athletic, set the family SUV's parking brake, stepped out of the car, and stretched his muscles. The brisk ocean breeze nipped at his face as he brushed a hand through his deep black hair and pulled up his jacket's collar. Many cars, trucks, and SUVs were here. Jason had checked the NOAA low tide tables on which Tommy had drawn a picture of a clam with a smiley face. Razor clams should be plentiful today.

Jason wanted his two sons to have the thrill of catching their limit—and large residuals from last season meant giant razors.

His sons—Tom and Bob—were seven and ten. Their excitement brought a smile to Dad's face. The boys hurried to the back of the SUV as Dad opened the lift. Their mom took charge as usual.

Mariana, shorter than Jason, with a ponytail she swore saved her ten hours a week in primping time, reached for the gear.

Okay, guys, she commanded, you want to have fun, you carry your own gear. The boys recognized their mom's subtle lessons. She handed out supermarket plastic bags to each and showed Tom how to tie one to his belt while his older brother mimicked the move, pretending experience. You'll need this to store your clams. She glanced in her husband's direction. Hope the bags are big enough. Let's put on your rubber boots.

Boots on, Mariana surveyed the situation. She and Jason purchased small versions of clam guns for their sons, and each boy, a gun thrown over his shoulder, marched behind their father. Jason led them to the edge of the parking lot, separated from the ocean by massive dunes that obscured sight of the water. A loose-sand path cut through the wavy green blades of clumps of dune grass. The boys found it hard to negotiate the sand that gave way with every step.

I'm going down more than up, giggled Bobby, his feet sinking into the loose sand as he struggled to climb.

Where's the beach, dad? Tommy asked.

Remember what grandma used to say: 'Good things are worth waiting for.'

Soon the boys were using their diggers as walking sticks. Mariana smiled as she watched her sons climbed to the top of the dunes.

Wow, declared Tom. I see England!

Bob shook his head. Tom was looking in the wrong direction. He chose not to explain it to him.

Okay, guys, before we head down, we are going to learn something about dunes.

The boys sighed. Their parents tried to teach them things saying it was important for their future. The boys wanted to live in the now. For once, the boys would be right on the subject. Fatally right.

How do you think these dunes got here?

Tell us, Dad.

Sure. Well, dunes are formed by aeolian processes—sorry, wind—and the ocean depositing sand. See how the beach side is slightly higher from the water pushing the sand up onto the dunes? It's called the stoss side. The backside is the lee side. Its valley—you see it—is the slack. The field of dunes is an erg.

Can we go now?

Bob, what side of the dunes are we standing on now?

The stoss side?

Perfect. Tommy. What do we call a field of dunes?

An Argh?

Close. Argh is what a pirate says. It's 'erg.'

I see a pirate on the beach, Dad. Can we go now?

You can. But I am going to beat you there!

They descended the dunes, the sand giving way beneath their feet, flying into their faces. Gravity is usually on one's side, but in this case, everyone struggled.

The wind picked up, biting at their faces, turning the boys' cheeks red, but the kids did not notice in their excitement. Jason smelled the salt in the air. Gulls and terns soared above, squawking to no one as sandpipers ran across the beach, looking for a morsel in the wet sand. The waves were calm and at a distance, and the boys announced this as their new playground. Bob ran seaward as Tom labored to keep stride with him.

Bob, not too far! Mom called out in a caring tone. She was quickly in control around the house, but she vowed to herself heightened awareness out here. Things happened fast with her guys.

When the boys tired of the beach, they rejoined their dad as he hunted for clams. The night before, Dad had sat them down and explained how they needed to come at low tide, so the clams were easier to catch. The clams could dig themselves down a foot into the sand for protection but left a hole or indentation in the sand as they buried themselves, a clue for our young Sherlocks. And some stuck their necks out as the tide receded, making them easier to spot. Jason enjoyed his time with the boys. He wished he had more of it to spend with them, but work kept him busy.

Look, guys, Jason pointed to the sand. You see that mound? Kind of like a volcano? He's down there. Shall we get him?

The boys nodded in excitement, and Jason swung his large gun around, centering it over the mound. A digger is a hollow, thin-metal tube, five inches in diameter, with a perpendicular handle on its top. Jason wiggled the pipe, pushing it down into the sand surrounding the clam. He hoped. When it was a foot and a half in, he covered an air escape hole in the handle, creating suction as he lifted the digger out of the sand. Once out, Jason held it over flat sand and released the suction. The boys' eyes opened wide as water-drenched sand poured out of it. Bob, then Tommy, scrambled to the pile of sand, looking for treasure. Their hands grew sandy and their clothes wet. Jason met Mariana's eyes. The boys' happiness filled their proud parents' hearts. Jason vowed to find more time to be with his family. He put a gentle arm around his wife's shoulder, a man at peace.

***

Then it happened.

Eighty miles off the Oregon coastline, on the ocean floor, two tectonic plates—the Juan de Fuca and the North American—continuously ground against one another, the first sliding under the other. For more than three hundred years, they had slowly moved this way at the pace of fingernail growth, a battle of force that built tension with every passing day—a sleeping giant. But without warning, there was no more tension to share. The North American snapped, creating a record-breaking earthquake that shook the North American continent from Alaska to California. It pushed a wall of water in all directions, the Oregon Coast its closest shoreline. The forty-foot-high surge would not stop.

Once hunting for food on the sand, the gulls and terns took disjointed flight, heading inland. A nearby golden retriever barked and pulled on its leash, trying to get away from its master. Everything went silent. Jason looked at Mariana as she fell to the sand, her legs no longer keeping her erect. He and the boys dropped as the ground rumbled. The ocean's roar intensified.

The land dropped eight feet. A fissure separated the parking lot into pieces then slammed shut, spewing fine sand into the air like an odd firework show.

Mariana, no longer in control, was speechless. The sand at her feet liquefied around her legs. The dunes changed shape before her unbelieving eyes. She tried to stand, but her body would not do as she bid it.

Where were the kids?

Jason?

After over six minutes, the earthquake subsided. People on the beach stood up. None had ever felt a quake that strong, nor one that lasted that long. Scientists had warned for years that an earthquake loomed. And with it, a tsunami that would change the shoreline of Oregon forever. The government urged residents to stockpile food, water, and survival gear. Few listened. This was not THAT quake. Was it?

But the excitement of the afternoon was not over. The waves of the ocean receded more than usual, thought Jason. A lot more. The beach doubled in depth. Tommy's amazement overcame his fear, and he ran toward the ocean. Bob started after him, but Mariana yelled.

Bob. Stay here!

Bob knew that tone in her voice. She was serious. He stopped dead in his tracks. Mariana cast her 'look' at Jason, and he took off after his son. Some clam diggers on the beach walked toward the receding waves in amazement. Others ran to the dunes, clawing their way up the loose sand and knowing the danger or sensing it. Mariana panicked but tried not to show it to Bob. She put her arm around him as they awaited Tommy and his dad's return.

Get away from the water! screamed a clam digger as he ran by.

What's wrong, Mom? Bob asked.

Nothing to worry about, she reassured him as Jason and Tommy got back. They turned and headed inland. Other clammers on the beach bumped into them as they scrambled to the dunes, knocking him off his feet. He cried. Mariana grabbed him, carrying him forward. A man behind Jason pulled on Jason's jacket as he ascended the dunes, throwing him backward and into a panicked crowd. Jason righted himself, went after the man, and cold-cocked him with a thrust of his right fist. The man fell into the surrounding dunes. Jason caught up with his family as they reached the apex of the dunes. The roar of the ocean was louder than before. Closer. They all turned and faced a massive wave that blocked their view of the sky.

It engulfed them.

Mariana held her Tommy by one hand and tried to swim with her other arm.

Which way was up?

The massive body of water tumbled them. People slammed into one another.

Jason's lungs burned. He continued to fight, but there was nothing he could do. Saltwater smothered his lungs, his arms went limp, and his mind went dark.

Jason gasped for air one last time.

***

GASP!

Jason sat up in bed. The night air chilled his sweaty T-shirt. He glanced around, rubbed a hand through his thick black hair, and tried to orient himself in the dark bedroom. Jason and Mariana lived in a cottage home on the ridge in Astoria. A soft ray of streetlight shone through the bedroom drapes, reassuring Jason it was only a dream.

What's wrong, Papi? Mariana stroked a gentle hand to his back. You had another one, didn't you? I'm not making you chili anymore.

He nodded as he took a deep breath.

This one was at the beach. He did not mention they had two children in the dream. Mariana loved kids, but they had none of their own. Jason always felt working at Head Start filled the void for her.

She worried about him. His job weighed on Jason, and the nightmares proved it.

I'm fine, he lied to her. Go back to sleep. He patted her leg as he got out of bed and headed for the bathroom. Another brush of his hair with his hand.

This is what the closet solved. It prepared us, Papi. You need to deal with it… Mariana mumbled as she drifted into a slumber.

Jason reinforced a corner closet and stocked it with supplies to prepare for The Event. Just like he told everyone else they should do.

Jason closed the bathroom door and turned on the light. He stared at the mirror. Glanced at the commode. Then the door. He lifted the toilet tank's lid without a sound, setting it quietly on the seat. His shaking hand sank into the water, retrieving a bottle that would calm his soul. He glanced at the door. The woman he adored lay sleeping on the other side. Jason twisted the cap, sighed, took a long gulp, then re-hid the bottle in the water tank.

Nerves calmed, he returned to bed.

Chapter 2

TRUTH

EARLY MORNING RAIN PINGED against the bedroom window; a hard, unrelenting rain typical of winter in Astoria. Thrown at you by the offshore winds. Mariana awoke to her I-phone's alarm. It was Tuesday morning, and the weekend was far in the distance. Too far. The alarm continued its annoyance. Mariana hit the snooze button. Again. The rain continued to pound on the glass pane next to her bed. Her husband, Jason, counted the rhythmic tones of the phone each time the snooze went off. Giving up, he dragged his body to the side of the bed while his wife moaned.

His hands shook. His mind was in a stupor. He glanced at his wife next to him. While she fought to ignore the alarm, Jason headed for the bathroom closing the door behind him.

Quietly and quickly, he lifted the tank lid to the commode and set it on the seat. Reaching into the water, he found the small bottle stashed there. He wiped the metal twist top with his towel and opened the flask. He gulped the vodka, almost gagging, and stood there in silence for a moment, hoping to feel better.

Coffee, he heard from the bedroom. Jason replaced the cap and returned the bottle to the tank.

Every morning during the week, Jason headed for the coffeemaker while Mariana, eyes half-closed, dragged her body to the sole bathroom of their rented, two-bedroom cottage in Astoria. She showered–no time for shampooing today–while he finished the coffee and dished up granola with bananas for them. He showered while Mari dressed and groomed. He dressed, she returned to the bathroom to finish things that were a mystery to men. And so, it went, the unbreakable pattern of their morning.

According to Jason, they had another pattern. Mariana's ability to find something wrong no matter how hard he tried to avoid it.

Are we out of Milk? she asked.

Why? I put the same amount on your cereal every day, my love.

Okay, but then there is too much granola.

Jason stayed silent. He knew the game. If he argued, he lost. If he agreed with her, Jason lost. The silence was his only peace.

Mariana watched his non-response, blew out a frustrated puff from her mouth, and rose to brush her teeth. This was Jason's cue to start the car's engine to warm its interior. Winter months in Astoria were cold, not brutal like Wisconsin, where Jason was born, but a stark contrast to Costa Rica, where they moved from three years ago. Conditioning their blood from a near-equatorial climate to that of the Northwest had taken time. And never, they avowed, would they be wearing t-shirts and flip-flops in January like some 'locals.'

As Jason started the engine, he felt the vodka, and normalcy, kick in. He returned inside, shaking off the rain. Mariana gathered her phone, purse, and Chapstick. She wrapped a scarf around her neck, donned a thick jacket, and pulled gloves on. Jason thought Mari looked like an Eskimo. She grabbed an umbrella which irked Jason. Astorians never use an umbrella, he would point out, because the offshore ocean wind wreaked havoc on them. He had lost that discussion several times in the past and wished not to repeat it today. Again, silence was the only option.

As she ran to the car, Mariana scrambled as if she would melt in the rain. Her husband kidded her about it. With the passenger-side door open, she fought to get the umbrella closed while not getting wet—a lost cause. Settled inside the car, she flipped the heater and blower knobs to the right. To her, they were incorrect, which irked her. Jason long ago learned it was her fiery Latina personality, something that attracted him to her. She was born in Bogota but had moved to Costa Rica to escape the dangerous environment of her homeland twenty years ago. Though things have improved there, she never felt the urge to return to her land. She looked forward, not backward. Now she was working for her citizenship in the United States. People from Central and South America look up to the States, admiring its democratic way of life and its people's ability to live freely. Now here, she sees that money and power rule and corrupt all countries. Still, the opportunity is abundant, something she was amazed at, citizens took for granted.

Every day, Jason drove down 8th street, went through downtown Astoria, and crossed the Youngs Bay bridge connecting the town to Warrenton. Low clouds encased Warrenton, the bridge disappearing on its far side as if the town ceased to exist. Jason imagined if he kept driving, he would fall off the end of the earth. As he entered the thick bank, sets of white headlights approached him. Only a pair of red taillights in front of Jason assured him he was on track. The two-mile-long Youngs Bay Bridge was all that separated Astoria from Warrenton.

Jason turned onto Third Street and down to the Warrenton Head Start building where Mariana worked. Jason set the brake as Mariana gathered her things. She leaned over for her ritual air kiss, then Jason watched as she walked toward the Head Start door. He waited for her to turn. When she did, he smiled. Despite their bickering, her look said everything was all right.

Mariana walked with a confident swagger. Diminutive, shoulder-length hair that blew in the offshore wind. Bright, orange-rimmed glasses made a statement. She was proud of her cinnamon-colored skin and the heritage it represented.

As Jason drove away, he approached a four-way stop intersection in the neighborhood. In his direction came a new Ford F-150 with raised suspension and oversized tires. A door decal displayed 'Thomas Fishing Guides.' Jason recalled seeing the truck up on Irving Street above where his friend, Terry, lived. The angler's boat, new and well-kept, sat off-street but in front of the angler's house. The driver neared the intersection, barely slowing down, and ran the stop sign in front of Jason as he made a left turn. He came within inches of Jason's car. Jason watched in his rearview mirror as the Ford turned into Head Start's parking lot.

Jason retraced his route back over the Youngs Bay Bridge that separated Warrenton from Astoria. He could not have known the absolute separation it would represent for him in the coming days.

***

Head Start originated as a summer school program designed to give the needed educational foundation for children of low-income families to succeed when entering elementary school. It expanded to a full-time schedule in 1981; its goal is to intervene in the country's systemic poverty.

It was a perfect match when Mariana joined the team in Warrenton. She offered the children her love and taught them social skills, recognizing shapes and numbers, and writing their names. She did not have a teacher's diploma, but no one loved their job more or gave more to the children.

Mariana waved goodbye to Jason as he drove off. Sadness overtook her. She pulled a card he had given her on their first anniversary. Reading it lifted her spirits. The printed text did not matter to her. It was