THE FIRE FRONT by Todd Guilmette

CHAPTER FOUR: THE USUAL FAMILY OUTING

15

Andra Phillips had been driving for ten hours straight when she began to drift off into the half-sleep that sometimes comes to drivers at night. The car was on cruise, so she had nothing to do but stare at the dividing yellow line and make sure that it did not drift off to the side too much. Lately, even this small task had been a bit too engaging, and she began to nod off. Fortunately, her older son was not sound asleep as she had thought, but was only sitting quietly next to her, his face hidden in the shadows.

Andra finally fell into a doze, and the next thing she heard was the rough squealing of tires. She jolted awake, saw her son's hands twist the steering wheel toward him. The car swerved, the tires screamed again, and then the car was on the right side of the road again. A second later, white light filled the interior. She jumped again, and looked back. Receding into the distance, the distinctive rear-lamp pattern of a semi truck faded around a hillside.

"Jesus," Andra managed after a moment. She looked over at her son. He was staring at her, eyebrows raised expectantly, mouth held to one side as if to say, "Good one, mom."

"Mom?" he asked.

"Yes?" Andra said, her eyes on the road ahead.

"Think you could let me drive for a while?" he asked, only half-pleading.

Andra took a deep breath. Calvin was fifteen, and had only driven a few times in town. She had understandably skeptical feelings concerning his abilities on the open road. And, at night.

But this was a different circumstance, wasn't it? In all likelihood, their home town, where they had taken residence and prospered as much as to be expected given the resources of a tiny, isolated Alaskan sphere, was reduced to a flat ashland. Andra thought the situation that confronted the three of them was of an extenuating nature, and a small deviation from her usual ways was probably acceptable. Wasn't it?

"Alright," she said. "I guess you got your chance, Calvin." Andra slowed the car, and pulled over onto the low grassy shoulder. She needed her sleep, and after her failure at the wheel earlier, she could not risk tumbling the car into a creek. Calvin knew the basics, and the transmission was automatic, so she would just guide him for a while, and then maybe take a short nap.

Andra opened her door and stood up. A sharp pang of discomfort ran up her spine. "Oh, shit," she gritted her teeth.

"You all right, Mom?" Calvin poked his head up over the roof.

Andra smiled. She grunted. "I'm O.K. Come on over, let's switch sides."

Calvin slid into the driver's seat, and Andra slumped into hers.

"All right," Andra said. "You know where everything is?"

Calvin smirked. He snitched his toungue. "Jeez, Mom. I've been driving for a long time."

Andra looked sharply at her son. "Oh? When was that?" she asked, although she already knew the answer.

"Dad took me out a few times," Calvin said, gripping the wheel. "Can we go?"

Andra sniffed. That would be exactly like his father to pull off a little manly fraternizing. And she knew just what he would say if she would ask: Oh, come on, he's big enough. And it's not that he's driving around town alone. I wouldn't let him have the keys.

Right, Andra thought. But if Calvin decides to take a joyride or something, I'll have your legal custodious ass.

"Let's go," Andra said. "Show me what you know."

Calvin grinned, and pulled off the grass. He brought the car up to speed, guiding the car most competently.

"A few times, huh?"

Calvin grinned again. "Uh, yeah. A few times."

Andra would have to talk to his father at a later time, at length.

Calvin started to flip the cruise control on, but Andra stopped him. "I don't think so," she said.

"But, Mom-"

"No. I don't want you to fall asleep like I did."

"I won't fall asleep, Mom."

"You need to do something else besides steer."

"Oh, come on."

"No cruise control. Keep your foot on the gas."

Calvin sighed. "All right. I won't put it on."

"Good," Andra said. "Now, you know all the turns?"

"Yeah, I've been this way thousands of times."

Andra laughed. He had been driven on this road frequently, every time he had to swich parents. She wondered how many times his father had allowed him to take the helm.

"Now, it's probably about eight more hours."

"Seven," Calvin corrected. "I looked at the time when we left."

"O.K., seven," Andra said. "But, if I fall asleep, wake me up by five O'Clock. That'll give me four hours of sleep at the most."

"O.K., Mom." Calvin smiled, looking at her.

She smiled back. "Look at the road."

Calvin drove.

16

Someone was knocking on Andra's window. Still half-immersed in dream semi-consciousness, her body jerked in response to the sound before she heard it. Opening her eyes, she slowly recognized the face of her ex-husband, blurred and dirty, on the outside of the window pane. A bit more awareness set in, and she knew what had happened. She was furious.

Andra opened the door of the Ford, and ducked out. She stood and stretched, gritting her teeth a little.

"Hi, And."

Andra faced her ex-husband. She nodded, too angry to trust her mouth to say something she wouldn't ultimately regret.

"See, Mom," said Calvin from the front of the hood. "I told you I could drive." His grin was wide, and untarnished by his mother's scowl.

"I guess so," She said, giving her ex a particularly piercing glare. He seemed not to notice, so she played along. If he could act undaunted, she would not give him the satisfaction of even a small tantrum in front of her son. "How are you, Kyle?"

Kyle Phillips shrugged indifference and amusement. "I'm alright. Although I must admit that I was a little surprised when Calvin came driving up, and you were asleep in the other seat."

My hard-boiled ass, Andra thought. You wanted to see this ever since you started to give your kid secret driving lessons, man to man. She tried to say this in her glare, and Kyle was not totally ignorant of her unspoken thought, although he tried to look like he was.

"Yeah, he seems to have successfully gotten us here without driving off a cliff."

"Mom," Calvin said, in his famous "Oh, Gawd, like, really," tone.

"Go on in and get something to eat, Cal." Andra watched him walk into the cabin, and close the door, before she shoved the big man down the hill, watching him regain his balance.

"What the fuck?" Kyle shouted. "What the hell was that for?"

"You know fucking well what that was for," Andra growled. "We agreed that he wouldn't drive until he was old enough for a license, and you let him drive all the way from Hill Creek. More than once!"

"Aah, I didn't let him drive all the way. Just a little."

"You don't have to lie to me anymore." Andra spat. "We're not married."

Kyle lifted his head up and walked back up the hill toward her. "That wasn't funny, Andra."

Andra let out a sharp puff of air. "No, that was my stand-up routine."

Kyle frowned, sighed a controlled exhale. "Look, I know you don't think it was a smart idea, but it got you here. And I hear that you almost ran both of you off the road."

"That's no just-"

"And then you almost hit a truck. You know what the car would have looked like if you had hit it head-on? A goddamn sheet-metal pancake, for God's sake!"

"I know, I know, I KNOW!" Andra yelled. "But we had a deal."

They both stared at the ground for a moment in silence.

Kyle sighed. "Andra," he said in gentler tones. "I know what I did, and I know you think it was wrong. But you're five hours late, and we have bigger things to worry about."

17

The news was on.

The fire front was everywhere. Thirty-two sattelite channels were showing either a national newscast, BBC or CNN. MTV, evidently to collect last minute decency points before it passed into history, elected to simulcast CNN, instead of it's regularly- scheduled scatterings of senseless art. There was no escape from the front. So, the Phillips watched the news.

Bernard Shaw was speaking. "As of the most recent reports, the fire front, which viewers overseas have come to call, although in questionable taste, the Burn, has swallowed half the state of Alaska in flame. We have reports that it has reached Fairbanks, and is working its way toward Anchorage. Everything that the front passes is incinerated. There is little left of the vast forests and tundra that so many times has captured the imagination of people everywhere, and been a symbol of natural beauty and preservation for all to see. But now, it is gone.

We estimate that nearly two-thirds of the population of our largest state has perished. Despite the attempts of civilian aircraft, and national and international jets, the evacuation simply could not have taken place in the short amount of time that we were given. I think I speak for the whole of America when I thank the many nations, which have provided evacuation and shelter for the fire refugees, for their kindness and consideration."

Kyle snorted. "God, it sounds like he's running for office."

"We may need new leaders after this one's done," Andra said. "Whoever pulled off this one needs to be hung. Publicly."

Kyle raised his eyebrows. He had never known his wife to be this hostile towards anything-- except him, of course.

Bernie continued. "As to the causes of this horrendous disaster, there is much speculation, but no theories have been confirmed, for the air behind the front is evidently poisonous. None of our jets have been able to investigate, even with oxygen masks. So, we will not report on any of these rumors, because that is what they still are, and CNN will not be responsible for promoting rumors."

"I wonder how much of this is real, and how much is bull," Kyle said.

"It can't be all true. The government isn't ever that open about anything."

"Well, mabye they realize that they screwed up, and so they see no reason to lie. After all, if they know that they're going to die, why lie up to the last minute? Why not just tell the truth?"

Andra sniffed. "Because if they knew the truth, there would be no rumors, because if they had told the real story, everyone would have known that it was true."

Kyle sighed. He watched the news.

Calvin came in with a giant sandwich and two Cokes. "What's happening?" he asked, and dropped onto the couch.

"Nothing good," Kyle said.

"How long before it gets here?" Calvin asked.

"Seven hours."

"So how are we gonna make it out of here? It's going at sixty miles an hour."

Andra frowned. "How did you know that?"

Calvin shrugged. "I was listening to the radio."

Andra stared at her son. Calvin never failed to surprise her, never failed to delight her with every new thing that he learned on his own, every new concept that he understood. She had a smart kid here, and she knew it. She had to get him out of here.

"Well," Kyle said. "If we can't drive, we got to fly."

"Yes!" Calvin yelled. "I love airplanes!"

Andra swore under her breath. She had enough problems with commercial jets. In Northern Canada, there were no airports that could handle large, safer flying machines. Only landing strips. And prop jets.

If they could find a pilot. And a plane.

"I hate planes, Kyle."

"I know, And." Kyle said. "But it's the only way out of here now."

Andra watched her ex-husband's face carefully. For once, she couldn't tell if he was amused or not. She grunted, and stood up. Maybe, she thought, her former husband and guardian of macho male integrity was abandoning some of his primal instincts in favor of some actual reasoning. She smiled.

Kyle saw her grin, and couldn't help but to wonder. "What?"

"Nothing," Andra said. "Let's go."

Kyle stared at her back. "Crazy female," he said.

18

Kyle, Andra and Calvin Phillips saw the airplane landing five miles away.

"There's the strip!" Kyle said.

"Is it Ron?" Andra wondered.

"It looks like his plane," Kyle craned his neck below the windshield, trying to look upward into the grey sky.

"Dad?" Calvin asked from the back seat. "Is it Ron?"

"I hope so," Kyle said. "If it is, we're out of here for sure."

The mood inside the Ford lightened. Smiles were present on all attending until they rounded a set of trees, and Kyle's expression turned grim. "Damn," he whispered.

The small propeller jet was on the landing strip, surrounded by various private vehicles. People gathered around the plane, swiftly moving this way and that, and bungling suitcases into the storage compartments. Kyle could tell already that there were not enough seats to accommodate half of those people.

Calvin peered from between the front seats. "Are we too late?" he asked softly.

Kyle took a deep breath. "I don't know, son."

Kyle parked the Ford among the cars. He told Andra and Calvin to stay in the car while he looked for the pilot. Weaving between frantic hopefuls, he quickly located his friend's red ponytail. "Ron!" he called out.

His friend was loading baggage. Hearing a familiar voice, he froze in mid-load. As he turned slowly, he spoke out. "Goddammit, Kyle, I'm not happy to hear your voice."

"Thanks, Ron," Kyle said.

"Fuck. Man, I'm sorry. These people got here first. I can't play favorites. Especially now, these people would mob me."

"Come on," Kyle said. "They wouldn't mob you. You're the pilot."

Ron smiled bland. "Hah. Yeah. Then, they'll mob you."

Kyle bared his teeth. "Not me, man."

Ron looked over his friend as if he had not seen him until just then. "Yeah, you could probably deck 'em all. But I wouldn't let you. The world is coming to an end, man. But that doesn't mean we throw all the morals out the window."

"Alright, Ron." Kyle looked his friend directly in the eye. "But take Calvin. I don't think we're gonna make it."

Ron nodded slowly. "I don't think so, either. I can fit him in."

Andra watched Kyle from the truck. Reading the two men's movements, she could follow the conversation. When she saw them bear-hug, her spirits fell. She tried to keep from crying, but she couldn't help the tears back into her eyes.

Calvin watched his father return from the plane. "There's no room, huh, Mom?" he said.

Andra could only shake her head.

Fifteen minutes later, the plane was off the ground, and Kyle was driving too fast down the two-lane road. Andra cried softly, and Kyle held a blank expression on his face. But Andra could tell, beneath the hard veneer of stone, infinite sadness percolated into her ex-husband as dew on warm canvas.

Kyle and Andra Phillips drove into the afternoon in silence.

CHAPTER FIVE: SEATTLE'S LAST RAINFALL

19

"What the hell am I gonna tell the viewers?"

News director Tom Schumann looked up at his colleague slowly, and fixed him with a dark glare. "I don't care if you tell them that the world is ending on Wednesday. Just do your job."

Meteorologist Gene Baker ran his fingers through his slick hair. It was already damp from the heat of the overhead lights. Gene didn't care for his director much, and it sure didn't seem to matter now. The way he understood it, the whole of Seattle would soon be much akin to a cajun-fried catfish.

"So what am I supposed to say," Gene asked Tom. "Monday will be rain-as-usual, Tuesday will be a bit drier but not much, and Wednesday will be absolutely sparkling with sunshine with temperatures around the four-hundred degree mark?"

This time Tom didn't look up from his copy. "Gene, that is in absolutely bad taste."

Gene gaped. "Bad taste? Jesus, everything that is run over by this fire wall will have a decidedly bad taste in their mouths."

"Yeah, so what does this have to do with our work? The Executive Producer of this television station, you know, the one who pays our bills and has kept us alive throughout the years, has expressed his intentions to me." Tom stood up and faced the meteorologist. "The employees of this station are to relay the news and transmit information from the sattelite feeds as long as possible. That is our duty as educators and performers. We will continue reporting the news. Until we can't."

Gene breathed through his nostrils. "Fine. I will do my job. There's no way I would desert the team. But I will not broadcast lies."

Tom sat down. "Nobody's asking you to do that. Just give an accurate forecast of the weather. Even for Wednesday."

"An accurate forecast. So, should I put a sun and enter the temperature at four fifty-one?"

"No. The fire front is a man-made attraction. You forecast the weather, what nature has in store for us. That's what people want to know."

"You want me to enter rain."

"It'll be raining up to the point that the front gets here, right?"

"Yes, as far as I know, the front is completely independent from all air masses. If the front were to pass now, it would obliterate all in it's way, but after it passed, the rain would start falling again. As far as I know."

Tom shook his head. "Wonderful invention, isn't it? It'll destroy all of us, and all things living, but it'll leave the rain to fall on the ashes."

"Yeah. Wonderful invention."

"See you on the floor, Gene."

"Yeah."

Gene Baker walked out of his supervisor's office. Working his way down the corridors of Channel Seven News Offices, no one seemed to be in the mood for talking. His colleagues, who would have given him a friendly greeting on any other day, just nodded and walked silently. Gene closed the door of his little cubicle and sat heavily in his chair.

Report the natural news, Gene thought. Right. As far as he could reason, a Meteorologist never reported the natural news. He reported the result of the interaction between the natural patterns of nature and the affectations of man. Forecasts in big cities showed temperatures of reflecting blacktops and metallic buildings, objects fashioned by man that raised the temperature in those areas. The forecast wouldn't show what the temperature would be like if there was no city. People wanted to know the temperature as it would be, not as it should be. And what about smog and acid rain? Those were man-made conditions, predictable by scientists, and not a part of a natural forecast.

"Reporting the weather," Gene said out loud. "More like reporting what people did to the weather."

"Who did to the weather?" A familiar voice startled Gene out of his trance.

Gene smiled. "Oh, I was just thinking. You know, musing about things devistating and cruel."

The woman smiled. "I wonder what that might be."

"Yeah, I wonder." Gene stood, and removed his coat from his small closet. "Come on, Kelly, let's go to lunch."

"Oh, yeah? Who's paying?"

"Equal tab. It's the nineties, you know."

"Well what happened to a little romance?"

"Girlie," Gene spoke in his best Gregory Peck voice. "That's out the window with the mockingbird."

Kelly slapped Gene on the arm with her stack of papers, and Gene pretended to be feigned.

Kelly smirked. "Come on, weatherman, let's go to lunch."

20

The cafe wasn't as busy as it should have been. Gene Baker wondered why people weren't enjoying the delicacies while they were still being offered. As far as anyone knew, the whole human race would soon be dining on Spaghettio's and pork and beans around a post-horror picnic setting.

Gene whistled softly. "I'm just thinking up the joys of life today, aren't I?"

Kelly stopped amongst a savory mouthful of mushroom burger. "I doubt anyone's got warm and wet happy feelings on their mind in light of our impending doom."

Gene readied another forkful of pasta. "Yeah. I guess that's right."

"So," Kelly asked. "Do you think the planes will still be holding our reservations tomorrow, or do you think we'll just be fried in this earthly skillet like pan-fried potatoes?"

Gene gave Kelly a particularly incredulous look. "You really do have a way of just squeezing all of my anxieties into a ball and feeding it right back to me, don't you?"

Kelly laughed. "Everyone needs a little lift in the spirits now and then."

Gene almost choked on his pasta salad. "Oh, shit. You're incredible, you know that?"

Kelly gripped her burger for another frontal assault. "I try."

After the two had eaten, Gene lit a cigarette, and they sipped coffee. The streets were jammed with vehicles packed to the windows with family treasures and belongings. The rainfall kept the temperature at bay, and the car windows fogged up with vapor.

"So what do you think, Kelly?" Gene asked the window, taking a puff. "You think this is the end of the world?"

Kelly was also staring blankly into the rain. "Well if it is, the Christian doomsayers were four years too early."

Gene huffed. "Yeah."

Cars' horns blared, as did tempers. The rain fell smoothly and placidly, as if to mock the silly creatures' futile efforts.

Just then, the most melodramatic thing happened. On the overhead speakers, Phil Collins' "I Wish It Would Rain Down" started to play. Gene and Kelly chuckled. "How apropo," they both said in unison, then shared an uneasy laugh. As the song progressed, Kelly moved her hand across the table. Gene didn't even have to look at it to accept her hand in his.

And it did rain.

21

"Ten minutes to air time!!" Tom Schumann yelled. Gene's ear happened to be right in front of Tom's mouth. As Tom passed, he looked back. Gene flipped him off, and Tom grinned.

Gene yelled back. "I mean that dearly!"

Tom grinned again and headed into the sound room, flipping the bird over his shoulder.

Gene snorted. "Asshole," he said. He wasn't due on the show until more than half way through the broadcast, but he checked his monitors and glanced at the lighting over the bluescreen anyway. Joining Tom in the control room where loud, routine last-minute hassles were taking place, he made sure that all his weather maps were passable. Or, at least without any glaring errors. The extended forecast screen was up, and Gene was about to move on when he noticed Wednesday's high. "451," it said.

Gene shifted his eyes toward Tom, who was already smiling. "Fuckit!" Tom yelled. Gene shook his head and chuckled. Then, he laughed. He was still snickering when the countdown came.

"Today's top story continues to be the approaching fire front that seems to be as yet unstoppable. Charles O'Reilly has more on this devistating problem."

Gene watched the taped segment on the monitors inside the control room. The orange flame lit up the technicians' faces like a campfire. "The Burn," Charles O'Reilly said. "Some are calling it the end of the world. Some are just calling it a dreadful misstep. Well, those people are halfway across the world, watching their respective news programs with intense interest. The people in Europe, Asia and the rest of the world know that the fire may not just wipe away all of their competition once and for all. It may continue across the world. Until there is nothing left.

"The people here in Seattle who have taken refuge from the fire front, now moving its way through southern Alaska and Western Canada, know this only too well: The fire front, whether it be a doomsday sign or the final judgement of humanity, is a `misstep' of cataclysmic proportions. They have been burned out of their lives as surely as the wildlife has been uprooted from it's native soil. The fire has taken everything they had. And more are soon to come."

The scene on the monitors changed to a family who had evidently set up camp in the back of their pickup truck. The head of the family spoke up. "We got nothing left. Our house burned down, our town burned down. I don't have money to put us all up in a motel until God-knows-when. Only thing we got is us. That's all we really had in the end."

Charles was back. "This family used to live in a town called Snowcrest. For the first time anywhere, we now have footage of the town as it is now, via satellite."

The footage was shaky from the helicopter's blades. The landscape was barren grey. There was no sign of a tree stump. Crushed brick buildings looked as if they had been melted in a giant kihln. There was no sign of movement, and no sign of life.

"This is the result of Man's work. Look, and see the result. Let us hope that some will live to learn this lesson. May God help us all."

On the monitors, snow began to fall.

22

It was Monday, March 21, 1996 in Seattle, Washington, USA, when the riots hit. The good citizens had apparently abandoned their civilized mannerisms and common-senses and taken to the storefronts with everything that they could transport. Every store that did not have all employees standing by with handguns and crowbars was looted and destroyed. It was a sight to see middle-aged men in their argyle sweaters and sneakers packing their cars and breaking plate glass windows. Fatalities were quite high as storeowners held on to their posessions with stubborn resolve. Even though they knew that the end was certainly near, they defended their accumulated worth as a soldier would defend his ideals: at all costs.

And the costs were high. Survivors tell us that an estimated million persons died in the riots. Storeowners died defending their stores, and homeowners died looting for survival. It was, surprisingly, easy for Seattle to make the transition from Beverly Hills to Saigon, proving again that the difference between acting civilized and being civilized is indeed as much as an act. The streets were free-for-all zones of violence. One survivor told us that the day of the Riots reminded her of a giant Roman coliseum, in which hopeless underdogs competed for their lives against terribly unmatched opponents. In this case, the underdogs were the people of Seattle. But was the opponent the terrible fire front, or the people of Seattle? That is left for sociologists to ponder.

Channel Seven news station had been assaulted five times by the time the sun had set behind a brilliant red smoke sky. Three of them had been guerrila-like attacks, evidently to infiltrate the station and broadcast their own personal feelings. Luckily, Tom Schumann, Vietnam war-veteran and weapon afficienado, had stashed more than a few assault weapons in the basement for just an occasion. A questionable move in all other circumstances, and a direct result of a traumatized veteran's altered philosophy on life, on the day of the Riots, the semi-automatic rifles were of fine use. Tom himself had warded off two attacks, slicing the guerillas' motivations in half with armor-piercing shells.

Monday was to be the last broadcast of the local news. But partway through the show, there was a loud gathering around a satellite feed from Washington D.C. There was a stunned silence in the studio as a printout of the copy was handed to the news anchor during a commercial break. The major piece of information that was contained in the raw text was this: The fire front was stopping. Seattle was saved.

"The atmospheric storm which is widely known as the Fire Front has ceased its southward movement towards Seattle. The local scientists cannot confirm anything at this point besides this: The fire's inability at this time to consume oxygen and burn wood has been attributed somehow to the reaction with the near-tropical plant life in and around the Pacific-Northwest. At this time, it does not appear that any area with the qualities of the land and air around the states of Washington and Oregon west of the Cascades and the Provincial areas of in Western Canada are in danger from the front. Let me repeat: Citizens of Seattle: the fire front has stopped. We are saved!"

The anchorman let out a loud falsetto shout, distorting the microphone. In the studio, every employee shouted and laughed with joy. The tensions of the last week were relieved in the next half hour, making it impossible to continue the newscast. Instead, a message was composed on one of the computer terminals and was broadcast over the airwaves. The message read, "The Fire Front Has Stopped! We Are Saved!"

Tears were on Gene Baker's face when he located Kelly. She was similarly disposed as the hugged. "Jesus," Gene whispered. "Jesus."

"I know," Kelly said. "Let's just stay like this for a minute."

A few minutes later, they pulled apart and faced each other. Kelly smiled. "That was close, huh?"

Gene laughed. "I don't think we would have made it out."

"I don't either."

The feed terminal was active from D.C again. "Another update," Gene said. "Better give this to Tom."

Gene pulled the printout off the printer and scanned its content. As he read, his features sombered.

"What?" Kelly asked. "What's wrong?"

"The Fire Front hasn't stopped. It's just going around us."

23

Tom Schumann called a meeting to read the new copy. The producers, camera operators and actors were in attendance as he spoke.

"To summarize, The Fire Front hasn't stopped, as was assumed quite fitfully a few minutes ago. It is just not coming here. As that would appear to be good news for us, you can cheer for Seattle and Portland. But much south of that, the fire is going to come back in force."

Gene spoke up. "What, it just went around?"

"The front does not appear to like extreme humidity and dense forestation. Much of the Pacific Northwest is saved from the Burn. But, word is, the front is continuing unabated off the coast of Southern Washington, hugging the coast. And, by all indications, it is gaining speed. From all calculations, if this front continues as it is, California, Arizona, New Mexico and Northern Mexico can forget about tomorrow."

"Fuck," a camera operator said.

"That is what everyone is thinking at this moment, thank you, Harold."

The room laughed nervously, and then was quiet as Tom let the information sink in. Then Kelly broke the silence. Her voice was soft, but quite audible in the closed room.

"What about back East?"

Tom took a deep breath. "The scientists are not willing to speculate on that, which is understandable considering the hasty judgement earlier. All we know now is what I have told you all." The News Director stood up, and looked over his staff. "Now, we are going to break into the network's programming. We will do a special report on these findings, and our tape will be forwarded to the networks and CNN later tonight. The networks want a close and personal view on this, and we will give them one. Let's write some copy."

The room broke up as the staff attended to their various jobs. Tom was speaking with the floor director when an explosion occured, shaking the building's foundation. Tom reached for the small of his back and took out a handgun. "Here we go again," he said.

Gene was one of the first to reach the lobby. The explosion, which had sounded like it happened in the parking lot, had created a fire which was burning several vehicles. As another car exploded, the front door burst inward, and two guerillas dressed in black overcoats and layers of equipment walked in. They turned to opposite sides of the room and opened fire.

Gene's ears were pressured by the first few rounds. He heard nothing as he jumped to the floor. He barely saw several people falling jerkily to the black tiles as decorative mirrors shattered behind them. Gene ran for his life.

Gene ran down the hall, chanced the first corner he came to, and dove for the carpet. Still deaf, he jumped as someone grabbed him from behind and thrust him into a corner. He reflexively thrust his arms up as he looked for his doom, but a set of green eyes loomed in his vision instead.

Tom motioned with his hand: Shhh. Gene nodded as best as he could. Tom turned to the main hallway and stood fast in the center, facing the lobby. As soon as he saw one of the guerillas, he started firing. Gene couldn't see the lobby where he was sitting, but he saw the smile on Tom's face. He was killing them!

But then Tom's plaid shirt danced, and he fell back. The hallway was devistated by bullets, and Gene hugged the floor around the corner for dear life. Seconds later, a figure whipped around the corner. Gene put his elbows on the floor and his hands in the air.

The guerilla had his rifle levelled at Gene. Two other figures appeared behind him. "Put me on the air," he said.

CHAPTER SIX: ALASKAN ASH

24

The owners of the Loghead Lodge had been prepared. Prepared for what, Jim Grovers didn't know. He supposed that they had forseen some sort of planetary war or local disturbance that would have warranted such a shelter as the one which housed, according to his first impression (for it was very dim in the shelter, and his eyes were not yet accustomed), over twenty people. Jim and Steve entered the living spaces, following the old man's steady pace down the hallway. They walked past several rooms with bunkbeds and shelves, and reached a central living area that at least resembled one of the stylish rooms above in the lodge. It had three sofas and a number of chairs.

Jim motioned the old man over to one of the chairs. Four people had been watching a small radio setup, talking quietly, and upon glimpsing the situation at hand, froze and stopped in mid-sentence.

One of them, a decidedly burly man, spoke up. "What the hell?" he asked. "What is this?"

Jim answered. "We only wanted to get away from the fire. We don't want to shoot anyone."

"Then put that gun away," the man suggested.

Jim lowered the gun, but kept it at his side.

"So tell me," another said. "What brings you two to the pit of hell?"

Jim studied this confident voice. He was dressed in a formal business suit, and his whole appearance generated a prestigious air. He had long-ish black hair, curly near the shoulder, and wore round glasses. The man stood from his chair and approached Jim, his right hand extended.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mister.." he prodded.

Jim paused for a minute, raising the shotgun slightly. The man stood in front of him. The man's eyes glanced at the gun, and then came back to Jim's face. Jim was handing the gun between hands when a swift hand wrenched it out of his grip. Then, a barrel was all he saw.

"Hey, hey," Steve held his hands out, palms facing the man. "Come on, we don't mean you any harm."

The man stared hard at Steve. "I don't bet you did." He handed the shotgun behind him to the old man, who raised it at the visitors once again. His eyes never left Jim's. After a second, he offered his hand again. This time, Jim didn't have to switch hands to shake it.

"Richard Oldknow," the man said.

"Jim Grovers," Jim's voice was shaking.

"Don't bother, Art," Oldknow spoke to the old man. "These people can join us. If they had the nerve to bring a crazy old fart down, they might have a chance in the new world."

Jim backed up and joined Steve. They shared a nervous glance.

"Sit down," Oldknow said. "I know you have questions."

Jim and Steve turned, discovered a sofa behind them, sat.

Oldknow smiled and raised his eyebrows.

Steve was the first to speak up. "What's going on here?" he stuttered.

"What's going on here?" Oldknow repeated. "What's going on where, in this room, in this state, in this country, in the world?"

Steve tried to explain, but the gentleman cut him off.

"I can tell you," Oldknow said, and his voice had now an edge which Jim thought was a little scary. "I can tell you what is happening in each and every part of the world as we speak. You see, I am at the center of it."

Jim processed those dangerous words, and decided that he would rather have been anywhere else but in the shelter of the Loghead Lodge. Well, almost anywhere else.

25

"Chaos," Oldknow said. "The storm before the calm. The fire is burning."

Jim asked, "The fire. We saw it up in the mountains. We came down here to find out what it was."

"It was fortunate that you happened on this particular lodge. This is probably the only place where you could have found out."

Steve spoke normally now, as the shotgun was beside the old man, and his hand was not on it. "Did you start the fire?" he asked.

Oldknow smiled and tilted his head. "Hmmm, more to the point, I caused it. I didn't start the fire." And then, unexpectedly, he broke into song. "It was always burning since the world's been turning!"

The burly man laughed loudly. Jim rolled his eyes. He hated Billy Joel.

Oldknow grinned, and, realising that he would get no play from this audience, sighed and resumed his calm demeanor. "I'm quite serious. You see, I have caused a fire that will change the world. The fire that you saw tonight will consume the world, except for a few choice areas which I have dutifully programmed into my creation as being.. ahh, salvagable."

"What?" Steve asked.

Oldknow got to his feet suddenly. He almost yelled. "I am destroying the world, little men! The fire will kill it all. All, so as to let the good parts breathe again!"

"You're crazy," Jim said.

Oldknow paused, his head tilted in high dramatic form as if to accentuate a tragic moment in a play. "Oh, now, you could have chosen a better word. I like to think that I am much more complex than that."

Jim accomodated. "Alright," he said. "You're raving mad."

Steve elbowed Jim in the side. He mouthed the words, "Shut up, Jim!" Jim shook him off.

"Well, that's hardly more descriptive. As you two have much to think about, I will let Mister Martinez here escourt you to a more private place so you can sort out your feelings."

The burly man pointed toward the hallway, forcing them out of the room. As neither of them were very physically fit, they acquiced.

"And when I visit you in a few minutes, try to come up with a better description for me," Oldknow said.

Martinez led the two men into one of the rooms they had passed while coming in. The door locked from the outside.

"God damn, Jim," Steve said, shaking his head. "Who is that guy?"

"I don't-" Jim turned his head to watch a small color monitor which had just come on. On the TV, a fire could be seen behind the trees. Above the treeline, a blending, pulsating orange firewall took over the sky.

The two men uttered gratuitous curses as they watched the trees burn. The fire approached the camera, and they felt a low rumble about them. Then the monitor darkened, and a bright line appeared in the middle of the screen. The camera lens had cracked from the heat. An instant later, the monitor went dead, but the rumble above their heads continued.

"The lodge," Jim said. Steve nodded agreement.

Steve whispered, "What have we gotten into, man?"

Jim was about to tell his friend that he didn't know, when a phrase occured to him. He thought that it was witty at the time, but neither of them laughed. "Out of the fire, and into the frying pan."

26

Jesus Martinez opened the door leading to the most sensitive room beneath the land. The door had no lock, for if one were to penetrate the shelter itself, no amount of security would have prevented access to this room. The shelter was encased in five-foot-thick, reinforced concrete-metal alloy walls.

Jesus was a security man. Therefore, he had a few bones to pick with his employer, the great Richard Oldknow. He had thought many times that Oldknow was a genius in the areas of his field, but when it came to tactical and defensive strategies, Oldknow lacked a certain finesse that had allowed Jesus to advance to the profitable and free position that he now enjoyed. You had to have innate guile and natural instincts to be a private-hire odd-job man such as he. Oldknow had guile, certainly, for a man must possess an almost psychotic reasoning to have concocted this scheme, but as for instinct, Oldknow had the basic instinct of a computer.

Jesus entered the base of operations of the SEEDRS, or Solution for Edification and Evolution by Direct Redesign Strategy. These people's idaeology and end objectives were of no real interest to Jesus, although because of the sheer scope of their operations, he was glad to be a part of the Strategy, and not part of the Evolution. However, he was being given a sizeable material gratuity and guaranteed comfort position in the new world, so he would perform according to the conditions by which he was hired. And one of those conditions was that Jesus could express his opinion on anything related to security. He could not disobey an order from his employer, but he could argue with him as long as he felt like it-- or until Oldknow threw him out of the room. And if he was about to engage in one of these firework displays of vocal battle, he was prepared to go at it until he was thrown out of the control room.

There were more computers in the control room than he had ever seen in one place. He had never been inside NORAD or FBI headquarters, but he had heard that they owned a great quantity of the jiggers as well. The walls were lined with terminals and processors. Status lights and monitors had been installed into the wall, providing space for the centerpiece of the room: a flat table with a high-definition display on top. This setup had reminded Jesus comically of the war room of the Pentagon in movies. Jesus found it a good bet to assume that this room was better-equipped than that other one in Washington, D.C. Else, how could they win the battle against the all-powerful U.S. government? And the rest of the world?

Oldknow was arguing with William Bennett, SEEDRS tactical advisor and resident technical expert. Jesus assumed that this would have Oldknow in a particularly productive debatable mood, and he prepared for battle. He smiled inwardly as he walked across the room and joined him.

"The Cray takes as long as it does because this operation has the highest amount of variables ever input into one to my knowledge," Bennett was saying. "The rendering capabilities of this supercomputer are the best in the world."

"I don't give a fuck if the animation is tippy-top of the line, two-hundred and fifty-six thousand million colors and six trillion frames per second. If I say that it's not good enough, then it's NOT." Oldknow spit out this last word inches from Bennett's face.

Bennett was obviously the lesser of powers in this argument, and his posture conveyed this. But he was not trembling. "It'll be the way you want it."

Oldknow backed off and smiled cold. "That's all I expect."

Bennett turned back to his machine-language, and Oldknow turned to his security man.

"Martinez," Oldknow said. "What?"

Jesus got to the point. "Are you going to keep the two campers?" he asked.

"I haven't decided. I have to talk to them first."

"I don't think they'll choose to be on our side. They're just lucky assholes."

"Yes, lucky assholes who overpowered your defenses and got in my base."

Martinez was mildly affronted. "They would'nt have done any damage."

"Oh?"

"I had a piece on them the entire time. Behind my back, the nozzle was pointing under my arm."

"Hmmm. Well, they aren't anything special," Oldknow said, picking up a printout from the table. He read, "Jimmy Grovers, biologist, the one who had the shotgun. He works at Sandia National Laboratories in New Mexico. His friend is Stephen Gregory, archaeologist operating in Northern Montana. Nothing special."

"You think they were just camping?"

"Probably. I'll talk to them now, so we can decide what to do with them."

"Alright."

Oldknow snickered. "Under your arm, huh? It's a good thing you didn't shoot, I'd hate to have to disinfect the shelter after the spray of B.O."

Oldknow laughed as he walked out of the control room. Jesus shook his head. He wondered how a man of Oldknow's intelligence could have such a adolescent sense of humor.

27

Oldknow stepped in after the door was opened, and Martinez slipped into the doorway enough to make his presence known. After the door was closed, and all three were locked inside, Oldknow addressed the two campers.

"Good evening, friends," Oldknow said. "I have to decide what to do with you. You do understand that you are, to borrow a term, freeloading on my vessel of progress."

Jim spoke up first. "What can you do with us?"

"Weeel," Oldknow sat on a bunk and stared across the room at his visitors. "I have two choices. I can allow you to join me, or I can let you back out into the wilderness. Of course, you'd die shortly. There is no water for miles. And food, well, you might find a barbequed elk. Maybe."

"How can we persuade you to let us join your cause?" Steve asked. "We do have a hell of an incentive."

Oldknow grunted. "Incentives are temporarily effective. To join me, you must believe in your hearts that my strategy will be, in the end, most effective to accelerate the momentum of mankind's advancement."

"What is your plan?" Jim asked.

"To annihalate the world, and then restore it to a true state of natural form."

Jim and Steve did not dare look at each other. They just stared at the floor.

"My fire front will consume all aspects of the human-influenced state, and leave a select few to witness the new world I will have created. The fire will take out all of the cities, all of the farmland, and all other things that man has created in error. All things that do not advance the evolution of mankind will be suffered. What do you think about this?"

Steve said, "I think it's a formidable task."

Oldknow batted the air with his hand. "Oh, the task is complete. The fire will destroy everything I want it to, and no one on Earth can stop it. So let's take it for granted that the world is now as I would have it. Now, the first question is, do you two, unplanned visitors and hitchhikers of a bygone era, belong in my new world?"

"Oh, do not even try to lie to me, I know you think that I am running without all cylinders, so I will ask you a few questions, and you will answer them. And if your answers are to my liking, or at least, not to my dislike, you will join our new world."

Jim and Steve dared to look at each other, and an unspoken conversation went on:

Jim's face said, "This fucking guy is absolutely insane, but what are we gonna do about it?"

Steve replied, "I don't think we can do a damn thing, we can't lie, I think he'll know."

Jim nodded. He had understood Steve's facial language properly. They would answer the man's questions. Jim told Oldknow this.

"Excellent," Oldknow said. "Do you believe in God?"

The two blinked, and stared incredulously at Oldknow.

"We're starting simply, you understand."

Jim answered slowly. "I believe that there is something somewhere that is controlling all of us, all the people. I don't think anyone truly knows what it is. I think they want to know, and so they write about their thoughts. Some people follow them. Some people don't."

"Hmm," Oldknow worked his jaw. "And you, Mister Gregory?"

"I don't believe in God. I think mankind is alone in his doings, and if we screw up, were all dead."

Oldknow smiled. "That's very concise. Very honest, I think you've run that line before."

Steve laughed bitterly. "I have a lot of religious friends. I've had to defend my beliefs a number of times. I've broken it down to two sentences now. I don't think it leaves room for doubt."

"Absolutely not. Next question, do you believe in evolutionary theory?"

Steve said yes. Jim took longer. "I think it's a likely theory, and I believe it because of the supporting evidence of many archaeological expeditions. But I think God is still controlling it all. I can't believe that there is nothing out there but us."

Steve looked at his friend. They had never really gotten into this subject, and if they hadn't encountered this madman, he may have not had the chance to share in his friend's thoughts. But he was embarassed, too, because maybe Jim had not intended he hear this. These were their innermost convictions, and Oldknow was forcing them out of he and Jim. Steve glared at Oldknow. He hated the man for this.

"Interesting," Oldknow was saying. "So, you two figure evolution is the way to go. Well, now, let me ask you this: Without the interference of religion, how much further would you think mankind would have gotten, in every aspect."

Steve volunteered again. "A fuck of a lot further. Every stupid war has been over religion. We would be farther along. We would be more matured as a species."

Jim listened to his friend. Steve seemed to enjoy this, the opportunity to express his ideas, without much fear of being chastised or scorned. Jim thought for a moment that his friend would get along with this Oldknow lunatic. His confidence in himself was much less.

Oldknow indicated he speak, so he spoke. "Religion has been the cause of many wars, but I think that without it, man would lack a certain depth of culture and character that it could not have possibly had without faith. I think, in the end, religion is a good thing."

Oldknow smiled again. "Good, good. This is going along well. Now, if a method were to present itself as a final means for cleansing the human race of all beliefs in the supernatural God, and leaving the Earth's surface as it was meant to be, would you implement it?'

Steve frowned. "You mean you're only killing the people, not the trees?"

"Oh, some of the trees will be sacrificed," Oldknow explained. "But the core tropical regions will remain untouched, and the other regions will be reseeded. That is our organization's acronym: the SEEDRS. We will replant, and restore."

"You have no feelings about the people you will kill?"

"They are, as well, victims of the past era of which I spoke. They have no place in the new world. Religion must be silenced so that scientific progress and advancement of the intellect can start anew. So, would you implement it?

Jim said no. Steve agreed.

"You lack vision. That is just as well." Oldknow stood. "There can only be so many great persons in history in a given time frame. I am the visionary of today, and the saviour of tommorrow.

"You may stay for now, I will not kill any more today. But I will not assure you of a place in the new world. That you must earn in time."

Oldknow moved to the door, and it was opened. "So, have you found a new description for the man who holds the life of every living being on earth in his hands?"

Steve answered. "Crazy."

To their surprise, Oldknow smiled. "I think so, too," he said, and took his leave. The door closed, but did not lock.

Steve and Jim took some deep breaths and shook their heads.

"We're in a load of trouble," Steve said.

"Yeah," Jim lied down on the bunk. "If he's telling the truth, the whole world is in trouble."

Steve sighed. "I hate Billy Joel."

They both snickered, then started laughing. They laughed until they felt like stopping.

28

Jesus Martinez stood in Richard Oldknow's way, effectively filling the narrow hallway. "We gotta talk."

Oldknow glared at him. "I'm not going to talk to you now. I'm creating a new world, don't you understand?"

"I know all that. All I'm worried about is those two." Jesus wanted an argument now, he had to claim his position.

"You. Don't worry about it, because I've made my decision."

"You've decided not to decide."

"I've decided not to kill them. I think that is the greatest thing that one could decide over another."

"I think they're a danger. A threat."

"Look, friend. I decide whether to kill someone or not. You have absolutely no position on this matter."

"As your security advisor, I can give an experienced opinion and my personal hunch."

"Your opinions only matter to me to a certain point. After that, I could give a fuck." Oldknow sizzled. "Now, let me by."

"I think they're a risk, and I say you should throw them to the dragons."

"I'm keeping them. I need someone to talk with. To preach to. I've already told everyone here what I think, and I want to dump on someone. You won't work, obviously."

"You know what I think about your strategy. I'll go along, because the other option is not one."

Oldknow smiled. "Mister Martinez, you always think in terms of life and death. I like that in a man. It's realistic, especially now, don't you think?"

This time, Jesus let the shorter man by. "Yeah," he said.

In the control room, every member of the SEEDRS was present for the latest milestone. They all watched it on various monitors, and on the table display. The satellite pictures were live.

On one, a super-macro close-up of a burning site. On another, a wider view, outlining the bright Alaskan territory.

"People," Oldknow announced to the room. "Alaska is gone, and Canada is going. There is no turning back now."

"Seattle, here we come," someone said.

Oldknow chuckled. "Seattle, ho!"

Everyone cheered. The task which they were irreversibly committed to was now a success. The test run was over, and the fire would "steer" around Washington and lower . The plant ecosystem in those portions were much too complex to reproduce. With nature's help, they would re-seed the woodlands and grasslands and tundra. But the tropical variations were too advanced for the supercomputer. They would be left alone.

This selective plan created a small problem: Seattle had a lot of people, and many of them would not be sympathetic to their causes. Something else would have to be done about them. And it was all planned out.

"Gentlemen, and Ladies," Oldknow said. All eyes were on him, as they should be. "We have started a new way of living, a new way to live. We have disowned and discarded what was a primitive, self-destructive, dead-end world. We must now think only of what we must now do. We must restore the land. And the people. And then, we will look only forward, into ourselves and into the future. Reality is our destiny, and religion is our past. Let's go to work, and make sure it goes well."

There was another cheer and wave of applause. Then, the scientists and specialists and retired and outcast military officers took to the keyboards. Monitoring, watching, dreaming.

Richard Oldknow stood back and watched his people. They were the future. They, and many others who had been warned, and now waited, hibernating until his signal was heard, worked for a new world. They wanted to live in peace, as one. And they would. He would see to that.