The Yellowstone Conundrum (18 page)

 
“Where do you live, again?  I think you told me.”

 
“West Seattle,” she replied.

 
“Might as well be Mars.”

 
“I agree,” she replied. 

 
“Karen, we’re in deep shit.  The people we see are all going to need shelter; warmth, food, bathrooms. This isn’t going to be a one-day or a one-night thing. We need to protect ourselves.” 

 
Karen’s contorted into a
What do you mean WE
look. 

  “Do y
ou want to go back to Johnson Hall?  That’s where we started,” Denny brought her back to current reality. “In six hours the day is going to be headed to night. Do you think they’re going to fix this?” his arm painfully splayed out and around, but not up and down.

 
No.

 
“Then, let’s get out of here,” he said.

 
With that the pair started across the grassy expanse toward Montlake Boulevard, a major highway that ran through the eastern portion of the campus and split the land between the Hospital and sports portions of the campus.  A heavy stream of glassy-eyed people headed across Montlake toward Husky Stadium, oblivious to the light traffic.

  A Yellow Cab!
A beautiful yellow cab; and it was empty!  Denny hailed it as the car slowly made its way through the throngs of people headed toward Husky Stadium.

 
“Yale Avenue and Thomas Street, or someplace close by, please,” Denny instructed the cabbie. “Where have you been this morning? What’s it like?” Denny asked as the cab slowly made its way south across the Montlake Bridge on Montlake Boulevard. The driver headed into a major concrete intersection; Montlake Blvd and the inbound traffic from highway 520; except there were no cars coming from their left this morning.

 
“The 520 bridge on Lake Washington has collapsed in several places,” the 40-ish driver explained in a heavy Pakistani accent as he slowly crossed the Montlake Bridge and continued south. At this point Montlake Boulevard changed into 24
th
Avenue E. and entered the upscale Montlake neighborhood of Seattle.

 
“Don’t you want to take 520 to 5?” Denny asked.  The driver shook his head.

 
“No, I-5 is closed in both directions,” the driver’s name was Fawad and Denny was unable to make out the last name.  It was very long with lots of consonants and vowels in the wrong places. Fawad turned to a five-inch monitor and punched in an alpha character, then three digits. The tiny screen popped up with the visual from the Washington State Department of Transportation’s live Traffic and Cameras page which showed nothing but static.

  “There is nothing.
The Alaskan Viaduct has collapsed also,” Fawad added. “Two ferry boats were hit by a tsunami as they approached the terminal. The one from Bainbridge Island overran Ivar’s Restaurant on the pier and continued on to a point near the main library. The second ferry from Bremerton was driven through the ferry station and up Yesler Way three blocks. The water rushed half-way up the hill, nearly to 4
th
Avenue before washing back into Puget Sound.”

 
The Pakistani cabbie was describing horrific damage that took place at the same time Karen was trying to get Denny out the elevator. KOMO radio was on in the background but in heavy static, the DJ repeating himself every few minutes with the highlights of the disaster, broadcasting to the few people who could listen.

 
“The tsunami destroyed all of the docks along Elliott Bay, flooded the baseball and football stadium parking lots.”  Fawad punched in additional information to his cabbie PC. The dual stadium area south of downtown appeared; both Safeco Field (Mariners) and CenturyLink (Seahawks) were flat and virtually at sea level, both flooded.

 
There was silence in the cab as the driver zigged, then zagged around a variety of show-stoppers; trees in the street, a bus in a yard, a bus in a Laundromat, telephone and electrical poles on the ground.

 
“I’ll get you close, but you’re going to have to walk a few blocks. I can’t take a risk on getting in a jam.  I’m low on gas,” he added, clearly worried.

 
“Where are you headed?” Denny asked.

 
“South Seattle. I’ll be all right. Allah will guide me.”  Fawad went back to his driving, now at the point where 24
th
turns into 23
rd
; one of the beautifully mystifying features of driving in Seattle is how the same road changes names depending on where it is on the grid. The same road can make a jig or a jag, move a block one way or the other and for that block it changes names; 22
nd
Avenue to 24
th
Avenue then back to 23
rd
Avenue.

 
“Where is everyone?” asked Karen, amazed at the empty side streets.

  “Home,” observed Denny.
“What time did it hit? Six-forty or so, before everyone left for work.” It was eerie going through dark neighborhoods; a few homes lit by generator power.

 
“Or they’re already on the interstates,” Fawad added. “And, can’t get off. He added as he turned on to East John Street which immediately turned into Thomas Street. The traffic signals were dark; fortunately the side streets were virtually empty and there was little traffic.  “I’ll get you within ten blocks but I’m not getting close to I-5; can’t afford to run out of gas,” he repeated.

 
Karen had a question on the tip of her tongue but Denny cut it off in mid-thought. “Gas stations need electricity to pump gas. The only gas stations running now are the ones with backup generators. Your typical gas station owner isn’t going to spend fifteen-to-twenty grand on an industrial generator for the oft chance of a power outage.  There’s no payback.” Denny saw some mist clearing from Karen’s eyes, replaced with dark fear; then reached for his wallet as Fawad pulled up to the corner of E. John and Broadway E. He wasn’t carrying much cash. He gave him a twenty and waived the change. The pair got out into the misty overcast morning. Denny motioned to the west, downhill toward Seattle proper.

 
Denny turned to Fawad and shook his hand.  “Good luck, my friend.”

 
“Praise Allah. We’re all going to need His blessing and your God’s luck,” Fawad replied, then slowly edged away from the intersection on his way to West Seattle.

 
Denny and Karen slowly walked downhill on John Street, crossed the I-5 jam-up, eight lanes of parked cars. Nobody could move backwards or forwards. The exit ramps were packed. Traffic lights were out. Street lights were out.

  Karen stopped.
Her brown hair, disheveled, belied what could be handsome looks, well hidden beneath two layers of comfortable clothes. At five-foot six she was no more than four inches shorter than her older companion. She swatted away hair that fell over her forehead. For the first time, real fear was a vapor layer behind her eyes.

 
“Are we going to be OK?” she asked. Beneath her she could hear the conversations between various drivers on I-5, stopped cold in their tracks. She was in the middle of Serious Shit. Momma and Step-Daddy weren’t going to be able to whisk her away to ComfortLand. She was 22, an “adult” and was with a man her father’s age who seemed to know more than she thought possible.

 
Denny’s eyes looked over her left shoulder, then her right, before settling in on a straight on look.

 
“I’m not sure,” he replied honestly. “This,” He motioned with his left hand. “Is out of my league,” he took a deep breath and clearly felt the pain in his right shoulder. He looked older than he did in the elevator, with vertical lines on his cheeks, some age spots on his hands.

 
“However, I believe my instincts are correct, although not shown,” he started, too professorially; then shook his head. She was in her early 20s and had saved his life. She may not know it, but they were linked.
Don’t fuck it up
.  He thought.

 
“We’re in the middle of a catastrophic disaster,” Denny started. “When hurricane Katrina crossed through New Orleans in 2005,” Denny resumed the story line from campus.  Standing as they were, they shouldn’t have been able to hear each other’s words from the noise of the traffic.  Instead, they could hear people below them on I-5 trying to use cell phones and yelling back and forth to each other with news updates. 

 
“When hurricane Katrina rolled over New Orleans it took less than 24 hours before civilized human beings dropped back to the stone ages. People from all over the city made their way to the SuperDome for shelter. As the hours went on, with no bathroom facilities, no food, no police; some everyday human beings turned into animals; looting, raping, murdering; as if the shell of being a human being was gone, replaced by; shit, I don’t know, primal ooze. There was no more God, no more law; only those who wanted to take and those who needed help. The takers were the bad people; the people who needed help were on their own.

 
“Do you understand what I’m trying to say?” Denny asked.

 
Karen nodded yes.

 
“When I say bad, I mean bad, very bad, do-anything-bad, no-morals-bad. The storm had pulled back the very fabric of what we humans are. I don’t know if I believe in God; but the storm had pulled back what God has, or had, given us; and left us with the primal beings we once were, before morality or laws or a conscience.”

 
Karen’s mouth was dry and she had to pee in the worst way.             

 
“The net of this is; I really believe we’re on our own.  You were there to help me out of the elevator. You were there to pop my shoulder back. I don’t think you have anybody else on your side, and I know I don’t.”

 
The words sank in; tears dripped from Karen’s eyes. Her nose and cheeks were red from the raw morning’s air.

  “OK.
So, we’re going to walk five blocks from here to the REI building. We’re going to get as fully equipped as we can, and then we’re going to,” Denny shrugged. “Walk out of here.”

 
The words rolled around inside Karen’s brain and the marble came out “Oh, sure”. Off they went.

 
In the distance downhill from their location Karen could see the devastation from the morning’s tsunami. Nobody was walking uphill toward 4
th
from the piers. The beautiful city that was Seattle had been devastated. While skyscrapers hadn’t fallen, several facings had, scattering tons of concrete and debris below. Five city blocks of downtown had been destroyed; the piers, the shipping companies, the ferries, the restaurants, and the Alaskan Viaduct. In the misty near distance to the NW the Space Needle had snapped three-quarters to the top, with the circular restaurant space now dangling toward the ground, like a heavy ball on a string.

 
The cars on the uphill side from Elliott Bay—Broad, Wall, Vine, Bell, had been picked up and smashed up the concrete canyons and deposited like a glacial moraine between Second and Third Avenues. Unlike the terrible 2011 Japanese tsunami, most of the buildings survived structurally, although first- and second-floor businesses were destroyed.  Debris was everywhere.

 
It took another fifteen minutes of straight-line walking, enough to raise perspiration on both of them, to get to the REI HQ building at 222 Yale Street at the corner of John Street. The REI building was a six-story building of glass and imagination, with a six-story glass exposure inclosing The Climbing Dude, a muscular three-story athlete in full gear climbing the inside wall of the structure, his shorts indicating power beneath. Inside the store was a replica of the storefront, a reservations-only climbing wall for youngsters and oldsters who wanted the no-fault experience of climbing a wall—something many dream of.

 
Denny and Karen stood gawking at the building. The glass storefront had collapsed, with exception of the top two stories, which had my God’s grace not fallen to the street.  However, God was getting tired. A billion-zillion pieces of glass covered the corner of John and Yale. Above were guillotines of to-be-fallen-glass. 

 
Lights were on via generator, after all—can’t miss a sale at REI. The electronic doors were open; electricians were working on getting them closed. Inside was
The Supermarket of Stuff You Have to Buy
. The cash registers were working off of generators although the phone lines for the credit cards were down. Inside, managers knew they shouldn’t be open—but like Denny’s, REI was Always Open. Two blocks down the street there was a frothy moraine of cars, dead bodies, storefront crap, building crap and just plain crap occupying the center of the uphill streets. Yet inside REI, it was another business day; thanks to the generators.

 
Denny guided Karen into the store.

 
“Ever been here before?” he asked.

 
“Can’t afford it,” she replied. “This is like Nordstrom’s for yuppies.”

 
Denny laughed so hard tears came to his eyes. “So true, so true, my dear; so true; for fucking yuppies; that’s a good one,” he continued to laugh as he appeared to be searching for something. Then he spotted him; a tall young man with blue eyes, athletic, earnest and scared to death.  Denny went to him.