Right Place, Right Time
Copyright© 2016 by Colin Keizer
Chapter 1: Chaos On The Streets
15 June, 1984
“Holy—that’s ridiculous!”
A stinking, screaming madhouse of exhaust fumes, brake lights, blaring horns, and fender-to-fender chaos filled the street in front of them.
Jerry Fletcher took one look at the mess outside the parking garage exit and turned to his driver.
“Sam, don’t even try. I’ll reschedule. We can’t make it in time through this, anyhow.”
Samantha ‘call me Sam’ Teaghan ignored him and slowly accelerated into an impossibly small gap. The next driver in line mashed his horn angrily but let her little Honda squeeze in ahead of him.
Her triumphant grin terrified Jerry only slightly less than the automotive insanity surrounding them.
“This is nothing, Jerry. You should see it when the Seahawks are playing at the Kingdome.”
He shook his head, amazed, and carefully pried his fingers off the dash. The dents they left in the padding probably weren’t permanent.
“I don’t remember a football game tonight.” She frowned thoughtfully. “I think the Mariners are in Los Angeles this weekend, so it can’t be them. I wonder what it is?”
She flicked her cassette player off and the radio on, then flipped through several channels trying to find a traffic report. Reagan was on all of them with a speech or something—all of them, from one end of the selector to the other. She gave up there, leaving it on her last choice, glancing at Jerry with a curiously quirked eyebrow.
The president’s voice sounded awful, what he told them was even worse.
“... sadly, my friends and fellow citizens, I must tell you that today Soviet ground, air, naval, and missile forces attacked troops, planes, ships, and installations of the United States, all around the world. This was not an isolated accident or some other terrible but singular misunderstanding. This was a calculated, deliberate act of global war. Many of our submarines, warships, and aircraft are now destroyed along with their brave crews.
“They did not go quietly and they did not go alone. Many Soviet aircraft, warships, and submarines are now likewise destroyed. Other Soviet air, naval, and ground forces continue expanding their attacks and commencing new attacks as I speak, even as our brave soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines fight fiercely to throw them back.”
Sam’s face and trembling fingers were white with shock. Jerry glared at the radio as if by sheer force of will he might force the announcer to break in and declare this entire horrible catastrophe some sort of terrible joke.
No such luck. It certainly explained why all the cars were on the street. This couldn’t be the first broadcast. While he and Sam had had their heads stuck in their computers all day, somebody had declared World War Three. How could they not notice it? Streetlights and neon signs were off everywhere he looked, as if there were no electricity except at the office.
“I don’t believe it! The generator, it must have come on when the power went out. I didn’t even see a flicker.”
Sam ignored him, totally focused on the radio. President Reagan’s speech continued, touching briefly on details of several of the attacks, then pledged tireless pursuit of victory and invoked God’s blessing on them all, ending with the ominous warning that everyone should listen for and obey their local Civil Defense authorities. And pray.
Both of them jerked at the loud buzz of the Emergency Services Broadcasting alert.
“This is not a test. This is not a test. Proceed immediately to the nearest fallout shelter. If no fallout shelter is available, go to a basement or other below-ground structure. Fallout shelters in Snohomish County are at the following locations.”
The list was depressingly short and did not seem to affect traffic at all. People obviously had more confidence in distance than concrete and steel. Were they all fleeing the city in panic?
“What now?”
Sam glanced at him briefly, her face a pale clown mask of streaked mascara and tears, her fingers white-knuckled on the steering wheel. Her eyes flicked back to watch the cars ahead of them creep forward as she answered him.
“I can’t believe the idiots actually did it.” She’d already said that twice. Whispered it, actually. He’d seen her lips moving and figured out the words, but finally he actually heard her.
Jerry dug into a back pocket and pulled out a clean handkerchief to offer her. She scrubbed sodden makeup off her face, then tried to give it back.
“Keep it.”
Traffic slowed even more while the radio announcer reported a litany of other hideous events neither of them wanted to hear. A bridge collapse and dozens of cars dumped into the Columbia, Snoqualmie Pass traffic barely moving, interstate highways not moving at all in Seattle and more, much more. Eventually, the man ran out of material and started over again at the top of his list.
Repetition did nothing to improve the story. They listened anyway. Traffic was hopeless. It seemed like every car in Everett was on the same street with them, fleeing from the city’s guaranteed atom bomb targets like the Boeing plant and Paine Field.
Every World War Three movie Jerry could remember was reeling backwards through his brain, starting with pathetic burnt survivors picking their way through scorched cities, nuclear mushroom clouds climbing into the stratosphere, battleship guns blasting, fighters and bombers exploding and Marines clearing bunkers with flamethrowers. All of the last month’s half-heard TV news anchor commentaries and barely noticed newspaper headlines suddenly made sense. How had he not seen it?
“Stupid, stupid, STUPID!”
Sam glared at him for an instant, green eyes stormy bright. Brakes screeched ahead of them. Her foot pumped the brake once, slowing them nearly to a halt as her gaze snapped back to the vehicle-choked street.
Belatedly, he realized she thought he was complaining about her driving.
“Not you, Sam. Me! I’m the idiot who ignored the news and scheduled an update for last night. If I hadn’t been futzing around in the server room today, you wouldn’t have been working a Friday shift in there with me. If I’d stayed home in Spokane, we wouldn’t either of us be in this mess.”
They couldn’t possibly reach SeaTac on time. On time? There was no more time, no flights, either. Somewhere in the gibberish of increasingly horrible radio announcements, he remembered hearing that all commercial flights were canceled hours ago, and the planes were all grounded. He was trapped in a late-night science fiction disaster movie that was suddenly his afternoon reality.
Sam was glaring at him again.
He wondered if he’d said something else stupid, or just failed to hear her say something.
“I would too be in this mess, Jerry. Maybe not this street, but—NO!”
The car in front of them slammed to a complete stop, and she crammed her brakes, sending both of them hurtling forward until yanked short by their seat belts. Behind them, more brakes shrieked, and something big smashed into the rear of her little Honda, shoving them forward to plow into the car stopped ahead of them, pushing all of them into the next car before they finally ground to a halt.
The little Honda’s hood crumpled up like wet cardboard, and steam poured out of the ragged gaps. Jerry heard headlights shatter as his face rebounded off his raised forearms. One wrist was folded across the other on the dash, and something inside it made a mushy crunching sound only he seemed to notice.
It hurt.
Damn.
Just what he really did not need with the world threatening to rerun Hiroshima and Nagasaki right on top of him.
“Jerry, are you OK?” Sam’s voice shook, and there was a red stripe on her cheek where her face had bounced off the steering wheel.
“Mostly, Sam. Are you all right? I’m sorry I got you into this mess. I think my wrist’s broken. I heard something pop, but it doesn’t feel like anything’s loose inside.” His cautious prodding ignited a small bomb of pain in his right wrist. “Ow! Wrong, wrong, something’s definitely bad.”
“Let me get my first aid kit, Jerry. It has some tape and bandages that should help.”
Great, now he was slowing her down. She stopped moving and frowned at him. Was she reading his mind, or just his face? A single pink-painted fingernail reached out and poked him in the chest.
“Jerry Fletcher, you listen to me! It’s. Not. Your. Fault. You didn’t get me into anything. If you’d stayed home this weekend, I’d still be out here in this mess today just as soon as I heard what the president is talking about. Believe me, I’m glad I’m not alone right now!”
She rolled down her window and stuck her head out to look at the vehicles scrunched into both ends of her car. Reagan’s speech was back again on the radio, apparently there were mass vaccinations in Soviet cities and that was bad. Who cared if the Russians were vaccinating themselves? Why did that mean everybody had to shoot off all the missiles?
He shook his left hand carefully, confirming that arm was still okay. What did he have that would make a sling for his right arm? There was a spare belt in his travel bag. That might work. It better—where was he going to find the real thing, much less a real doctor, in the middle of all this?
“We have to get out of the car now, Jerry. It’s stuck. Do you need any help?”
He looked around. The car wasn’t moving any more and the radio was suddenly silent. Damn! Was the EMP on them already? He shook his head, regretting it instantly as his wrist throbbed again. No. The radio was dead because Sam had killed the engine and yanked her keys out of the ignition. Was that gasoline he smelled? Why was she looking at him like that?
“I’m OK. I heard you. I’m getting out of the car.” Was he in shock? Maybe. Did he look like he was in shock? Probably.
She turned and fumbled unsuccessfully with her door lock for a moment. It was totally jammed. She twisted in her seat, curling up into a brain-numbing vision of long, nylon-clad legs, sensible driving shoes, and a modest plaid skirt immodestly akimbo.
Did she need help? How could he help with only one hand? How could he possibly ignore that pool of flowing red curls, those firmly set coral pink lips, and those shapely legs kicking out, hitting the door hard with both feet? Nothing. She kicked again, harder, breaking something and slamming the door open. It bounced loudly off the rear quarter panel of the car next to them, leaving an enormous dent. Somebody yelled angrily, one more shrill voice soon lost in all the clamor.
“Get out of the car now, Jerry! Nothing’s moving ahead of us, and this wreck is not going anywhere without a tow truck. That’s not going to happen today. We have to walk the rest of the way.”
Walk the rest of the way where? Certainly not to SeaTac, that was miles south. Besides, none of the airlines would be flying; the radio announcer had said so.
Sam was already out and checking the other drivers. They seemed okay, able to get out of their own vehicles, anyway. She hurried around to lift the Honda’s hatchback—the already open, crumpled, and broken hatchback. A shower of broken glass bits fell on Jerry’s travel bag.
The other drivers wasted no time talking with Sam about the crash. They just grabbed bags or other stuff from their vehicles and hurried away on foot. Weird! Nobody even tried to exchange insurance or phone numbers.
Idiot.
Of course not. Settlements and accident reports, that was over. Done. They’d all be lucky just to live through the next few hours, and then the next few days. Next week was a fantasy he suddenly couldn’t even imagine.
“Jerry!”