Magnitude 8, Part Two
Title: Magnitude Eight, Part II
Author: 2theletter
Rating: PG (language)
Pairing: Buster Posey/Madison Bumgarner
Synopsis: After the earthquake, Madison and Buster are separated by only ten miles. But with a highway network out of commission, no phones and no way to contact one another, they might as well be on separate planets.
Disclaimer: Fiction. Did not happen. Not to be construed as any kid of reflection of reality.
Highway 101 -- 7:55 a.m. PST
Madison wasn't sure what had just happened. He was staring straight into blue sky. That didn't make sense. The air was deathly still. There no noise, no roar of vehicles on the highway. The more he thought about it, the more uncomfortable he got. Bumgarner began to hyperventilate, squeezing his eyes shut and hoping this was just some weird dream and nothing more.
His eyes popped open when he heard rapping on the windshield.
It was a man in a suit. He was standing at an odd angle. "Hey, you okay in there?"
Bumgarner looked at him, wide, brown eyes filled with terror, and tried to say something. No words would come. After several seconds, he simply nodded.
The man turned away from Bumgarner and shouted, "We got one over here! Says he's all right!"
He held his hands out toward the car. "Don't move, son. We're going to get you out of there."
It was then Madison realized the man wasn't standing at an angle. The car itself was tilted, it nose pointing into the air. It explained why Bumgarner had been looking into the sky instead of flat across the horizon. The suit guy, who looked to be about fifty, and another man scrambled down a broken section of the highway and approached the vehicle. "Can you open the door?" the older one asked.
Bumgarner pried his hands off the steering wheel. He stared at the indentations their powerful grip left behind. Slowly, he opened the door and put a foot on the canted asphalt.
"Careful now," the suit man said. "Do you hurt? Anywhere?"
"My side a little bit," Bumgarner replied. "But I think I'm fine."
"Okay. Here." The two men grabbed Bumgarner's arms and helped stand upright out of the car. Now Madison could see the back wheels had sunk into a crevice in the highway. He followed the crack to others, splitting 101 like a massive spider web. His hands started to shake.
"What happened?" he asked, voice trembling slightly.
The second guy, who looked like he might be in college, sighed. "Earthquake. A really big one."
Madison rubbed his forehead, trying to comprehend the event. The suit guy grasped Bumgarner's shoulder. "You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah."
He looked at Bumgarner's pupils and felt around the pitcher's torso. "Anything?"
Madison shook his head.
"Okay. I've got keep going down the highway here."
Bumgarner's mind continued to spin. "Why?"
"I'm a doctor. Emergency medicine. If you can believe it, it was supposed to be my day off. But people are hurt all up-and-down the highway."
"Bad?"
The doctor exchanged glances with the college-age kid. "I think you're going to find out you're extremely fortunate not to have been killed today."
Bumgarner felt the blood drain from his face. "My God."
"What?"
"Buster."
"I'm sorry. Who?"
"Buster, I've -- I've gotta get to him. I have to get to San Francisco."
"Whoa," the doctor said, pressing a hand to Madison's chest. "You're not going to get far. Highway's all busted up, as far as I can tell."
Madison gently pushed him away. "You don't understand. I...I'm going to the city. I have to."
Crawling halfway back into the vehicle, he grabbed the cell phone he'd tossed into the passenger seat when the highway started bucking. Stuffing it into his front pocket, he clambered up the slope of cracked pavement. When he reached the top, his eyes took in a sickening sight. Sure enough, the stretch of 101 visible to him was a mess; sunk in some places, uplifted in others. Cars lay scattered across the blacktop. Power lines had fallen across some of them. Then, he looked up toward the city and saw plumes of black smoke starting to waft into the sky.
Bumgarner's lips parted for only one word, "Buster," and then he took off, running in the direction of San Francisco.
Noe Valley -- 8:19 a.m.
Pain. A sharp pain the likes of which Buster had never felt. As he drifted back into consciousness, Posey was aware of little except that stabbing ache in his head. He tried moving his head slightly to the right, and was punished with a lightning bolt of pain arcing from his brain down through his neck and into his shoulders.
"Ah, fuck!" he yelled. The shouting just brought on more pain so he lay still and quiet, trying to figure out what had just happened. The room creaked around him, and occasionally a crash could be heard. Whether it was coming from inside or outside Cain's house, Buster couldn't tell.
Cain's house. The thought jogged his memory. He remembered coming in to water the plants and check the mail. Then he remembered the seizing, lurching motion under his feet. It was right after -- oh shit. It was right after Bumgarner called. Buster gently lifted his head and looked around the room, searching for his phone. There was dust everywhere, shards of glass near the big bay window and broken furniture. It looked like a disaster movie set. Finally Buster saw his phone, where it must have landed when he fell. It was in several pieces scattered across the hardwood. He grimaced and put his head back down on the cool floor.
He suddenly became aware of a weight on his back. Buster remembered the small shelf falling toward him during the 'quake. He shoved it off and rolled onto his back, gritting his teeth through the pain emanating from his head. His forehead felt odd, as though something were stuck to it. The catcher raised his right hand to feel the area. His fingers came into contact with a liquid. Jerking his hand back, he saw his fingertips covered in blood.
Buster squeezed his eyes shut and struggled to keep from panicking again. I can't do this, he thought. If I freak out, I'm good as dead. When his breathing slowed, he opened his eyes and came up with a plan. It was simple, but he hoped to God it would work. Get out of this house. As if on cue, something large crashed to the floor of the second story, loosening more plaster dust that peppered down onto Buster's face.
"That's it," he said.
He slowly pushed himself upright, first onto his elbows, then sitting upright. The change in orientation caused his head to throb again, and he grunted in pain.
"Okay," he told himself. "Halfway there."
He carefully brought himself into a crouch, steadying himself by grabbing the sofa. When he regained his balance, he stood and looked down at his body. There were some scratches, but nothing serious. Then he noticed the red stain on the floor from where his head had lain after he lost consciousness.
He swallowed hard and began to make his way toward the door. He stepped over wide cracks where the joints in the hardwood had split. Still unsteady, he kept one had on the foyer wall as he made his way toward the front door. The door was stuck when he tried to open it. He ended up pulling with all the strength he could muster. The door swung open violently, throwing Buster into the foyer wall and again sending another wave of pain through his body.
The front stairs were cracked, so Buster held on to the banister and very cautiously put one foot onto the first stair, testing his weight before taking the next step. When he reached the sidewalk, he looked up and immediately regretted it. The whole neighborhood looked like Cain's house -- broken and unfamiliar. A few of the older homes had actually collapsed. Some tilted at crazy angles, and still other buildings had simply pancaked down.
He heard someone behind him say, "Oh God, another one."
Buster turned around to see a female EMT walking toward him. When his face came into view, she started running.
"Geez," she said, placing her hands on his face and gently turning his head in each direction. "You've got a nasty cut up there. A knot's already started. There's blood all over your face."
"Am I going to be okay?" he asked.
She pulled a pocket flashlight out of her jacket, shining it in Buster's eyes. "What day is it?" she asked.
"Friday?"
"Who's the president?"
"Barack Obama."
She put the flashlight away and ran her thumb over the knot swelling on Buster's head. "You've got a concussion, but it doesn't appear to be serious. Are you hurt anywhere else?"
"No."
"Okay, sit here on the sidewalk. I'm going to get some gauze, and I'm going to bandage your head, mister..."
Buster blinked at her. "Oh, uh, Posey. Buster Posey."
The EMT's face registered her recognition. "I thought you looked familiar. I've rooted for the Giants since I was a kid. Let me get the bandages."
She wrapped the cloth around his head several times, to the point where it felt uncomfortable. But Buster figured between the two of them, she knew what she was doing better than he ever would. Just as she stood and packed the gauze away, Buster looked up and asked her if she'd heard anything from south of town.
She shook her head. "Our emergency radios are barely working right now. I have no idea what's going on outside the city. I heard Oakland's all busted up, but that's a rumor."
"Hey, one more thing," he said. "What time is it?"
She glanced at her watch. "8:40."
Posey thanked her and watched as she walked away, down the street to tend to a group of people clustered around a broken shop window. His thoughts turned to Bumgarner. He wished he could call him, or send some message to Madison that he was okay. Buster couldn't help but think of the irony that he was sitting in the digital communication capital of the world, and yet knew nothing about what was happening beyond his own eyesight. The thought was unsettling, so he pushed it away and continued to sit, looking dazed and trying to figure out what he could possibly do.
Germantown, Tennessee, 12:30 p.m. CST
Mat Cain stood in his living room, staring out the window. He didn't hear his wife enter the room.
"Did you get through to anybody?" she said.
"Yeah," Cain replied, running a hand through his hair. "Zito, for, like ten seconds. His place is trashed. The city's a wreck."
"And?"
"And nothing. The line went dead."
"How long do you think that's going to last?"
Matt shrugged. "The Bay Area's a big place. Days? Weeks?"
"We're going back out there," Chelsea said, more a declaration than a question.
Cain bit his thumbnail and stared back out the window, trying to figure out what to do next. He whipped back around to face Chelsea, his eyes wide.
"What time did the earthquake happen?" he asked.
Chelsea hesitated. "I think the news said half past seven?"
Matt's face went ashen. "Jesus."
"What?"
"Buster would have been in there. Kid lives by the clock." He punched the wall. "Goddamnit!"
Chelsea grabbed his arms, holding them by his sides. "It's not your fault. You don't even know for sure he was there."
Matt closed his eyes. "No, I know Buster. He said he'd be there. He was there."
Bayshore, California -- 11:22 a.m. PST
The causeway carrying 101 over the bay had settled into the muck, making it impassable. Bumgarner detoured to Bayshore Boulevard and kept walking. As the sun climbed higher, so did the mercury. Madison was drenched in sweat, and his pace began to slow as he tired out. If Buster was still in Noe Valley, that was another nine miles across the uneven asphalt. Bumgarner knew he couldn't stop, but he knew he couldn't keep going, either.
The pitcher tried to flag down the few passing trucks he'd seen, big Army-looking things growling their way up the highway toward the city. No one stopped. He couldn't really blame them, but he was also angry. Angry at the drivers who refused to help him out. Angry at the Earth or plate tectonics or whatever the hell it was that caused this horrible thing. Angry at himself for not being with Buster when he should have been.
Just then, he heard the hiss of an air brake. He looked up in time to see a large PG&E truck slow to a stop in front of him. The driver rolled down the window. "Need a ride into the city?"
Bumgarner thought he'd never hear those words. "Yessir!" he shouted.
The driver motioned him into the cab. "Get in."
Madison scrambled across the highway, threw open the heavy door and jumped into the seat. The driver put the truck back in gear and the engine roared to life as the vehicle resumed its slow path north.
"I don't understand," Bumgarner said a few minutes later. "Why'd you stop for me?"
The driver kept looking straight ahead, sometimes jerking the steering wheel left or right to dodge a crevice or downed power line. "I'm from Nebraska," he said. "And whenever we had a disaster, it was common sense: You help your neighbors. If we don't stick together in a time of crisis, then what's the point?"
At the junction of Bayshore and Geneva Avenue, a CHP officer stopped the truck. As he and the driver talked about where they were headed, Bumgarner looked through the windshield, shaking his head. There probably wasn't an intact window in town. Streets were already cordoned off with police tape. He caught sight of one brick facade that simply disintegrated, tons of the red blocks crushing a row of cars underneath.
His mind rewound to another abnormally warm spring day when he was probably five years old. A tornado swept through a town near his home. He remembered his dad driving him into the damage path a few days later. Madison craned his neck to see over the dashboard and saw houses split open, cars turned over like toys and power poles snapped in half. He never thought he'd see anything as terrifying. Until today.
Bumgarner was jolted out of his daydream when he felt the truck seat lurch underneath him. They had cleared the checkpoint, and were underway again.
Dallas, Texas -- 1:00 p.m. CST
Nick Bumgarner managed to navigate the bustling atria and corridors of DFW to his departure gate just in time. His flight was due to leave in less than half an hour . Struggling with a bag stuffed with souvenirs and dirty laundry, he finally laid eyes on the ticket clerk as the flight began boarding.
He handed his boarding pass to the clerk. She smiled and said, "Cutting it close, eh?"
Nick smiled back. "I'm lucky I made it here at all. This airport's bigger than my hometown."
The clerk chuckled, then looked at the pass. Her smile disappeared. "You came from San Francisco?"
"Yeah, real early this morning."
"You got out of there just in time."
Nick looked puzzled. "What are you talking about?"
She pointed to a nearby TV screen tuned to CNN. "There was this huge earthquake there," she said. "You didn't hear about it?"
Nick's eyes widened in shock as he saw the pictures flash by: Smoke pouring out of office towers. Buildings sunk into the ground in the Marina. Cracked streets. Commuters abandoning their cars and walking off the Bay Bridge, part of which had collapsed into the bay. Then, the dazed faces of the walking wounded, businessmen and women in the Financial District covered in dust, dark patches of blood soaking through their clothes.
He couldn't move. "No, that can't...that can't be right. Everything was fine. It was all okay."
"Do you know someone there?"
"My brother," Nick said, his voice barely above a whisper. "My brother is there."
"I'm sorry, sir," the ticket clerk said, quietly. "But we do need to get you on the plane."
He tore his eyes away from the grisly images. He nodded and walked on, shoulders slumped. Tears welled in his eyes. His cell phone began buzzing. He looked at the number and took the call.
"I'm about to get on the plane," he said. "I'm fine. I just heard about it."
He reached the end of the jetway and stepped to one side as other passengers shuffled past him.
"No, momma," he said, his voice cracking, "I haven't heard from him."
Part Three
Author: 2theletter
Rating: PG (language)
Pairing: Buster Posey/Madison Bumgarner
Synopsis: After the earthquake, Madison and Buster are separated by only ten miles. But with a highway network out of commission, no phones and no way to contact one another, they might as well be on separate planets.
Disclaimer: Fiction. Did not happen. Not to be construed as any kid of reflection of reality.
Highway 101 -- 7:55 a.m. PST
Madison wasn't sure what had just happened. He was staring straight into blue sky. That didn't make sense. The air was deathly still. There no noise, no roar of vehicles on the highway. The more he thought about it, the more uncomfortable he got. Bumgarner began to hyperventilate, squeezing his eyes shut and hoping this was just some weird dream and nothing more.
His eyes popped open when he heard rapping on the windshield.
It was a man in a suit. He was standing at an odd angle. "Hey, you okay in there?"
Bumgarner looked at him, wide, brown eyes filled with terror, and tried to say something. No words would come. After several seconds, he simply nodded.
The man turned away from Bumgarner and shouted, "We got one over here! Says he's all right!"
He held his hands out toward the car. "Don't move, son. We're going to get you out of there."
It was then Madison realized the man wasn't standing at an angle. The car itself was tilted, it nose pointing into the air. It explained why Bumgarner had been looking into the sky instead of flat across the horizon. The suit guy, who looked to be about fifty, and another man scrambled down a broken section of the highway and approached the vehicle. "Can you open the door?" the older one asked.
Bumgarner pried his hands off the steering wheel. He stared at the indentations their powerful grip left behind. Slowly, he opened the door and put a foot on the canted asphalt.
"Careful now," the suit man said. "Do you hurt? Anywhere?"
"My side a little bit," Bumgarner replied. "But I think I'm fine."
"Okay. Here." The two men grabbed Bumgarner's arms and helped stand upright out of the car. Now Madison could see the back wheels had sunk into a crevice in the highway. He followed the crack to others, splitting 101 like a massive spider web. His hands started to shake.
"What happened?" he asked, voice trembling slightly.
The second guy, who looked like he might be in college, sighed. "Earthquake. A really big one."
Madison rubbed his forehead, trying to comprehend the event. The suit guy grasped Bumgarner's shoulder. "You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah."
He looked at Bumgarner's pupils and felt around the pitcher's torso. "Anything?"
Madison shook his head.
"Okay. I've got keep going down the highway here."
Bumgarner's mind continued to spin. "Why?"
"I'm a doctor. Emergency medicine. If you can believe it, it was supposed to be my day off. But people are hurt all up-and-down the highway."
"Bad?"
The doctor exchanged glances with the college-age kid. "I think you're going to find out you're extremely fortunate not to have been killed today."
Bumgarner felt the blood drain from his face. "My God."
"What?"
"Buster."
"I'm sorry. Who?"
"Buster, I've -- I've gotta get to him. I have to get to San Francisco."
"Whoa," the doctor said, pressing a hand to Madison's chest. "You're not going to get far. Highway's all busted up, as far as I can tell."
Madison gently pushed him away. "You don't understand. I...I'm going to the city. I have to."
Crawling halfway back into the vehicle, he grabbed the cell phone he'd tossed into the passenger seat when the highway started bucking. Stuffing it into his front pocket, he clambered up the slope of cracked pavement. When he reached the top, his eyes took in a sickening sight. Sure enough, the stretch of 101 visible to him was a mess; sunk in some places, uplifted in others. Cars lay scattered across the blacktop. Power lines had fallen across some of them. Then, he looked up toward the city and saw plumes of black smoke starting to waft into the sky.
Bumgarner's lips parted for only one word, "Buster," and then he took off, running in the direction of San Francisco.
Noe Valley -- 8:19 a.m.
Pain. A sharp pain the likes of which Buster had never felt. As he drifted back into consciousness, Posey was aware of little except that stabbing ache in his head. He tried moving his head slightly to the right, and was punished with a lightning bolt of pain arcing from his brain down through his neck and into his shoulders.
"Ah, fuck!" he yelled. The shouting just brought on more pain so he lay still and quiet, trying to figure out what had just happened. The room creaked around him, and occasionally a crash could be heard. Whether it was coming from inside or outside Cain's house, Buster couldn't tell.
Cain's house. The thought jogged his memory. He remembered coming in to water the plants and check the mail. Then he remembered the seizing, lurching motion under his feet. It was right after -- oh shit. It was right after Bumgarner called. Buster gently lifted his head and looked around the room, searching for his phone. There was dust everywhere, shards of glass near the big bay window and broken furniture. It looked like a disaster movie set. Finally Buster saw his phone, where it must have landed when he fell. It was in several pieces scattered across the hardwood. He grimaced and put his head back down on the cool floor.
He suddenly became aware of a weight on his back. Buster remembered the small shelf falling toward him during the 'quake. He shoved it off and rolled onto his back, gritting his teeth through the pain emanating from his head. His forehead felt odd, as though something were stuck to it. The catcher raised his right hand to feel the area. His fingers came into contact with a liquid. Jerking his hand back, he saw his fingertips covered in blood.
Buster squeezed his eyes shut and struggled to keep from panicking again. I can't do this, he thought. If I freak out, I'm good as dead. When his breathing slowed, he opened his eyes and came up with a plan. It was simple, but he hoped to God it would work. Get out of this house. As if on cue, something large crashed to the floor of the second story, loosening more plaster dust that peppered down onto Buster's face.
"That's it," he said.
He slowly pushed himself upright, first onto his elbows, then sitting upright. The change in orientation caused his head to throb again, and he grunted in pain.
"Okay," he told himself. "Halfway there."
He carefully brought himself into a crouch, steadying himself by grabbing the sofa. When he regained his balance, he stood and looked down at his body. There were some scratches, but nothing serious. Then he noticed the red stain on the floor from where his head had lain after he lost consciousness.
He swallowed hard and began to make his way toward the door. He stepped over wide cracks where the joints in the hardwood had split. Still unsteady, he kept one had on the foyer wall as he made his way toward the front door. The door was stuck when he tried to open it. He ended up pulling with all the strength he could muster. The door swung open violently, throwing Buster into the foyer wall and again sending another wave of pain through his body.
The front stairs were cracked, so Buster held on to the banister and very cautiously put one foot onto the first stair, testing his weight before taking the next step. When he reached the sidewalk, he looked up and immediately regretted it. The whole neighborhood looked like Cain's house -- broken and unfamiliar. A few of the older homes had actually collapsed. Some tilted at crazy angles, and still other buildings had simply pancaked down.
He heard someone behind him say, "Oh God, another one."
Buster turned around to see a female EMT walking toward him. When his face came into view, she started running.
"Geez," she said, placing her hands on his face and gently turning his head in each direction. "You've got a nasty cut up there. A knot's already started. There's blood all over your face."
"Am I going to be okay?" he asked.
She pulled a pocket flashlight out of her jacket, shining it in Buster's eyes. "What day is it?" she asked.
"Friday?"
"Who's the president?"
"Barack Obama."
She put the flashlight away and ran her thumb over the knot swelling on Buster's head. "You've got a concussion, but it doesn't appear to be serious. Are you hurt anywhere else?"
"No."
"Okay, sit here on the sidewalk. I'm going to get some gauze, and I'm going to bandage your head, mister..."
Buster blinked at her. "Oh, uh, Posey. Buster Posey."
The EMT's face registered her recognition. "I thought you looked familiar. I've rooted for the Giants since I was a kid. Let me get the bandages."
She wrapped the cloth around his head several times, to the point where it felt uncomfortable. But Buster figured between the two of them, she knew what she was doing better than he ever would. Just as she stood and packed the gauze away, Buster looked up and asked her if she'd heard anything from south of town.
She shook her head. "Our emergency radios are barely working right now. I have no idea what's going on outside the city. I heard Oakland's all busted up, but that's a rumor."
"Hey, one more thing," he said. "What time is it?"
She glanced at her watch. "8:40."
Posey thanked her and watched as she walked away, down the street to tend to a group of people clustered around a broken shop window. His thoughts turned to Bumgarner. He wished he could call him, or send some message to Madison that he was okay. Buster couldn't help but think of the irony that he was sitting in the digital communication capital of the world, and yet knew nothing about what was happening beyond his own eyesight. The thought was unsettling, so he pushed it away and continued to sit, looking dazed and trying to figure out what he could possibly do.
Germantown, Tennessee, 12:30 p.m. CST
Mat Cain stood in his living room, staring out the window. He didn't hear his wife enter the room.
"Did you get through to anybody?" she said.
"Yeah," Cain replied, running a hand through his hair. "Zito, for, like ten seconds. His place is trashed. The city's a wreck."
"And?"
"And nothing. The line went dead."
"How long do you think that's going to last?"
Matt shrugged. "The Bay Area's a big place. Days? Weeks?"
"We're going back out there," Chelsea said, more a declaration than a question.
Cain bit his thumbnail and stared back out the window, trying to figure out what to do next. He whipped back around to face Chelsea, his eyes wide.
"What time did the earthquake happen?" he asked.
Chelsea hesitated. "I think the news said half past seven?"
Matt's face went ashen. "Jesus."
"What?"
"Buster would have been in there. Kid lives by the clock." He punched the wall. "Goddamnit!"
Chelsea grabbed his arms, holding them by his sides. "It's not your fault. You don't even know for sure he was there."
Matt closed his eyes. "No, I know Buster. He said he'd be there. He was there."
Bayshore, California -- 11:22 a.m. PST
The causeway carrying 101 over the bay had settled into the muck, making it impassable. Bumgarner detoured to Bayshore Boulevard and kept walking. As the sun climbed higher, so did the mercury. Madison was drenched in sweat, and his pace began to slow as he tired out. If Buster was still in Noe Valley, that was another nine miles across the uneven asphalt. Bumgarner knew he couldn't stop, but he knew he couldn't keep going, either.
The pitcher tried to flag down the few passing trucks he'd seen, big Army-looking things growling their way up the highway toward the city. No one stopped. He couldn't really blame them, but he was also angry. Angry at the drivers who refused to help him out. Angry at the Earth or plate tectonics or whatever the hell it was that caused this horrible thing. Angry at himself for not being with Buster when he should have been.
Just then, he heard the hiss of an air brake. He looked up in time to see a large PG&E truck slow to a stop in front of him. The driver rolled down the window. "Need a ride into the city?"
Bumgarner thought he'd never hear those words. "Yessir!" he shouted.
The driver motioned him into the cab. "Get in."
Madison scrambled across the highway, threw open the heavy door and jumped into the seat. The driver put the truck back in gear and the engine roared to life as the vehicle resumed its slow path north.
"I don't understand," Bumgarner said a few minutes later. "Why'd you stop for me?"
The driver kept looking straight ahead, sometimes jerking the steering wheel left or right to dodge a crevice or downed power line. "I'm from Nebraska," he said. "And whenever we had a disaster, it was common sense: You help your neighbors. If we don't stick together in a time of crisis, then what's the point?"
At the junction of Bayshore and Geneva Avenue, a CHP officer stopped the truck. As he and the driver talked about where they were headed, Bumgarner looked through the windshield, shaking his head. There probably wasn't an intact window in town. Streets were already cordoned off with police tape. He caught sight of one brick facade that simply disintegrated, tons of the red blocks crushing a row of cars underneath.
His mind rewound to another abnormally warm spring day when he was probably five years old. A tornado swept through a town near his home. He remembered his dad driving him into the damage path a few days later. Madison craned his neck to see over the dashboard and saw houses split open, cars turned over like toys and power poles snapped in half. He never thought he'd see anything as terrifying. Until today.
Bumgarner was jolted out of his daydream when he felt the truck seat lurch underneath him. They had cleared the checkpoint, and were underway again.
Dallas, Texas -- 1:00 p.m. CST
Nick Bumgarner managed to navigate the bustling atria and corridors of DFW to his departure gate just in time. His flight was due to leave in less than half an hour . Struggling with a bag stuffed with souvenirs and dirty laundry, he finally laid eyes on the ticket clerk as the flight began boarding.
He handed his boarding pass to the clerk. She smiled and said, "Cutting it close, eh?"
Nick smiled back. "I'm lucky I made it here at all. This airport's bigger than my hometown."
The clerk chuckled, then looked at the pass. Her smile disappeared. "You came from San Francisco?"
"Yeah, real early this morning."
"You got out of there just in time."
Nick looked puzzled. "What are you talking about?"
She pointed to a nearby TV screen tuned to CNN. "There was this huge earthquake there," she said. "You didn't hear about it?"
Nick's eyes widened in shock as he saw the pictures flash by: Smoke pouring out of office towers. Buildings sunk into the ground in the Marina. Cracked streets. Commuters abandoning their cars and walking off the Bay Bridge, part of which had collapsed into the bay. Then, the dazed faces of the walking wounded, businessmen and women in the Financial District covered in dust, dark patches of blood soaking through their clothes.
He couldn't move. "No, that can't...that can't be right. Everything was fine. It was all okay."
"Do you know someone there?"
"My brother," Nick said, his voice barely above a whisper. "My brother is there."
"I'm sorry, sir," the ticket clerk said, quietly. "But we do need to get you on the plane."
He tore his eyes away from the grisly images. He nodded and walked on, shoulders slumped. Tears welled in his eyes. His cell phone began buzzing. He looked at the number and took the call.
"I'm about to get on the plane," he said. "I'm fine. I just heard about it."
He reached the end of the jetway and stepped to one side as other passengers shuffled past him.
"No, momma," he said, his voice cracking, "I haven't heard from him."
Part Three