Desolation

Gene Larimore’s building wobbled so violently, he was afraid that he would be shaken off like a cowboy tossed by a prized Brahma. He let go of the BAR and made his body wide, palms and feet pushing against the roof’s undulating surface to maintain balance. A fissure ripped opened behind him, shooting thick dust plumes, like volcanic ash, into the air. The earth tore at the building’s foundation widening the chasm. Then like gunfire, the fissure burst to the middle edge of the building. Its enormous energy pulverized everything in its path, and exploded outward, breaking free from the building’s brickwork. A deafening rockslide of bricks, released from their previous occupation of holding up the roof, rained onto the street. Gene’s portion of the roof dislodged itself and pitched violently toward 1^st Street and the invaders. Before he realized what was happening he was body surfing off the roof, head first. Even though he was below the lip of the building’s tall parapet, with the severe pitch of the roof, he could plainly see the street. All at once, he felt he was falling as his corner of the roof gave way. Gene landed in a heap on his back, looking up, caught in a dream about falling bricks and clouds of dust. Unable to move, he closed his eyes, surprised that he felt nothing and saw only blackness.

When Sue’s perch started to crumble, she threw herself backward. Repeatedly she scrambled to her feet and tried to run, and repeatedly she was flung down. She rolled toward the middle of the roof and the only exit. Fear and adrenalin propelled her, as the world rolled past her eyes like a live version of that antique child’s toy that flipped rapidly between two pictures: roof — sky — roof — sky — roof. When she reached the roof’s opening, she felt the whole building give way, as if it had been pushed over a cliff’s edge. She and the building were floating in the air. She watched in horror, facing the roof, as the space between her and the roof grew from inches to feet. A moment later they landed and there was no more rumble. She hadn’t blacked out, even for a moment. The roof was mostly intact, and surprisingly, it would appear, she was too.

~~~

Frank Patton and Jeff Rohrbach, clutching his French horn, were plunging into space, almost making it down the church tower when the earthquake hit. The force of the first jolt was like a severe car accident, jarring both of them loose and sending them careening down ten feet to the ground. Frank hit first, and Jeff landed on top of him, his treasured horn immediately after. Frank pushed him off and they both attempted to scuttle for cover, but were unable to even get up on all fours. First some plaster, then large chunks of the ceiling and walls. Frank scrambled to the side, away from the first chunk of ceiling. “Move this way!” The clamor around and beneath them drowned out his words. The next chunk struck right between them. Part of the debris hit his leg, but a larger piece smashed into Jeff’s head.

Jeff lay flat on his back, still with the death-grip on his French horn, unconscious or maybe even dead. Frank checked his status as best he could. His own leg cried out for attention while the rumbling continued unabated and more debris fell. He grabbed Jeff’s shirt collar and tugged, then started the difficult process of inching away. Hard enough if it were just him, but pulling this dead weight …

If he’d had the time, he would have laughed and enjoyed the irony of this whole situation. Some years back, he had been persuaded to join in some silly three-legged race for some damned stupid community summer event to raise money for this church, to fix the very tower about to collapse on top of them. And who did he draw for his partner but Jeff Rohrbach. Great, I’m paired with some liberal asshole musician who hasn’t been out to see the light of day, much less done anything resembling exercise. His suspicion was correct. Rohrbach was worthless at this event and Frank had had to carry the pudgy, pasty-faced man the whole time. Now, he was doing it all again to keep Jeff from dying. Worse yet, he actually liked the man, after getting to know him with all their lookout duties. It was Rohrbach who came up with the Paul Revere routine, volunteering to put himself in harm’s way. Frank was ex-military; he was made for these things, not Rohrbach. Yet, it was Rohrbach who volunteered. Frank was not going to let him die, not if he could help it.

Frank tugged again and gained the side wall of the tower, when he heard a giant cracking sound like some hundred-foot giant had snapped the structure in half with his bare hands. Knowing what came next would not be good, he righted himself and grabbed Jeff around both wrists, that damned horn still locked into his grip, and pulled as hard and fast as he could toward the door.