Magnitude 8, Part Three
Title: Magnitude Eight, Part III
Author: 2theletter
Rating: PG (language)
Pairing: Buster Posey/Madison Bumgarner
Synopsis: Now more than six hours after the earthquake, Posey's on his way back to his place. Madison's going in the other direction trying to find him.
Disclaimer: Fiction. Did not happen. Not to be construed as any kid of reflection of reality.
San Francisco - noon PST
The closer Madison got to San Francisco, the more his stomach knotted with tension. Seeing damaged buildings and streets every mile since abandoning his truck on 101, he feared for Buster's safety. He tried calling Posey's cell phone several times, but always received silence in return. As the PG&E truck bounced along, making its deliberate way north, Bumgarner kept reaching into the pocket of his jeans. He let his fingers gloss over the phone's buttons, but resisted the urge to pull it out and try dialing Buster one more time.
He felt the truck shudder to a stop.
"This is as far as I can take you," the driver said.
"Where are we?" Madison asked.
"A little north of Portola," the driver replied. He pointed toward the windshield. "Up there's 280, and on other side is Bernal Heights."
Madison's head drooped. "It's going to take me a long time to get up to Noe Valley, isn't it?"
"I wish I could help you more, but I've got to stay here and try to get some of these broken gas mains under control."
"I know," Bumgarner said. "Thanks for getting me this far."
He threw open the door and hopped out. Just as Madison climbed out of the truck's cab, he heard a deep rumble. The earth under his feet shifted again. Madison froze, gripping the door so tightly he feared it would break off into his hands. The massive truck rocked back-and-forth, as though swaying in a breeze. Bumgarner's heart pounded and he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The shaking was mild, and it lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough to terrify the young man. The PG&E driver peered over the edge of the seats and asked if Madison was okay.
"What the hell was that?" he replied.
"Aftershock," the driver said.
Bumgarner shook his head. "Hell of a place. This is a hell of a place."
He set out along the road, pointing himself in the general direction of Noe Valley. He walked north.
***
It was taking Buster longer than he'd planned to find a way back to his apartment. His thoughts were a little fuzzy as a result of the concussion he sustained in the earthquake. It didn't help that so many streets were blocked off. Familiar landmarks were few and far between. Some had been destroyed in the temblor; others were hidden by clouds of smoke that began to drift in from the north.
He encountered others like him. The walking wounded. People with bandaged heads, or legs stabilized with rudimentary splints, or arms wrapped in T-shirts converted into makeshift tourniquets. And then, of course, people covered in sheets or articles of clothing until their bodies could be hauled away. The lightheadedness and the smoke made Buster ill. He sat down on a curb -- he didn't even know which street -- and put his head in his hands. He sat there, listening to the distant wail of sirens, a broken water main gushing nearby and his own breathing. He wasn't a man of great religious faith, but he wondered if this is what the apocalypse would be like.
"Buster?"
At first, Posey thought he'd imagined hearing his name. There's no way anyone would recognize him amid the chaos.
But then he heard it again.
"Buster!"
The catcher raised his head and looked around. Left, right, left again -- there. On the other side of the street. Zito.
When he locked eyes with Buster, his face brightened. "Shit. I knew it was you!"
He walked across the street and stood in front of the curb, towering over the younger man. "Jesus, what happened to your head?"
"Something hit me in the 'quake. I got a concussion."
Barry knelt in front Posey, examining the gauze around his head. It's was Buster's first look at Zito up-close since the earthquake. The lefty looked pale and drawn, his face seemingly aged ten years in just one day. If this was bad enough to rattle the normally laid-back pitcher, Posey thought, it had to be really bad.
"You're gonna be okay," Zito said. It occurred to Buster that Zito had no medical experience and therefore had no basis for his prognosis. It also occurred to him that his head was pounding, he was dizzy, his boyfriend was missing in the aftermath of a disaster and suddenly he didn't care that Zito didn't have a medical degree.
Buster glanced down and gasped. "Oh God, Z. Your arm."
Zito's right arm was stained rust-red and laced with cuts turned nearly black with clotted blood. He looked down at it and pursed his lips. "I know."
"What happened?"
"I was eating breakfast with a reporter. He was doing some kinda pre-season profile on me. In the middle of it, the 'quake hit. We were sitting next to a window, and when it shattered, we both got cut up pretty bad. I got it worse than him, though. He was wearing a jacket."
"Does it hurt?"
"Like hell. But what am I supposed to do about it? Hospitals are full. Ambulances can't get through. And...well, if this is the worst injury I got, I'm pretty lucky."
Buster nodded. "I know what you mean."
Zito looked around. "Where's Bumgarner? He's close by, yeah?"
Posey shook his head. "I don't know where he is. I haven't seen him since...you know, before. This morning."
"Jesus," Zito said. "I'm sorry, man."
"Do you have any idea where we are?"
"Yeah, we're right next to your place."
Buster's eyes widened. "What? You're shitting me."
"Naw, man. Your apartment's a block over that way." Zito pointed behind Posey's right shoulder. "Just go to the end of this street here, and make a right. You'll be there."
Buster stood and grasped Zito's hand. "Thank you. Thanks a ton. I'd have wandered all over the city looking for it."
"See? Lucky I found you. The day's turning around already."
Posey cocked his head slightly. "Only Barry Zito would still have a sense of humor on a day like this."
Zito was already walking away from him, but he turned to face Posey and walked backwards. "Well, what else are we supposed to do? Right now, humor's about all we got."
Posey waved and Zito went on his way. Posey slowly weaved a path past some abandoned cars and turned right at the intersection, dreading the scene he would find at his own home.
Noe Valley -- 3:00 p.m. PST
Bumgarner's stomach rumbled loudly. He rubbed it and grimaced.
"I know," he said. "I'm tryin' my best."
Talking to himself was something he'd started after he crossed 280. It started out as mutterings to sort out the pattern-less pile of thoughts in his mind, little verbal reminders or musings to himself. Then, it was louder and in full, normal sentences. Now it was conversations with his stomach. If he ever made it through this day alive, Bumgarner told himself, he'd never willingly talk to a part of his body again.
His stomach growled again in response. Madison told it to shut up.
He must have been getting close to Cain's house, he reasoned, because he thought he remembered some of the buildings. Then again, everything seemed so radically different in appearance after the earthquake that he had doubts. But as he crested a small hill, he saw the familiar light blue siding of the place Matt and Chelsea had purchased only a couple of years before. The windows were mostly broken and the eaves tilted at odd angles, but it was their house, all right. Madison put aside his hunger and began jogging, then running, toward the place. He carefully navigated the unstable stairs and saw the front door lodged partially open.
He pushed it open and tentatively stepped into the small front hallway that served as a coat room.
"Buster?" he called. He heard only an echo of his own voice in response.
"Buster, it's me!"
Still nothing. Bumgarner saw the stack of mail Buster had been collecting that week, now scattered across the floor. Broken pipes in the kitchen had mostly given up their pressure, leaving only the repetitive sound of dripping to greet the pitcher. Stepping further into the house, Bumgarner poked his head into the living room. His eyes darted around at the possessions either knocked over or hanging at crazy angles on the wall.
Then he saw blood.
Deep brown dots of dried blood blotted the floor near the coffee table. And there, just a few feet away, Buster's cell phone, broken into pieces.
Madison whirled around and shouted up the narrow stairwell leading to the second floor. "BUSTER! IT'S MADISON! ARE YOU HURT?! ANSWER ME!"
And as the seconds passed with no response, Madison began to panic. The room began to dance and spin in his eyes.
"Buster..."
He dropped to his hands and knees on the floor and gasped for air. He gritted his teeth and waited for the sensation to pass. Finally, it clicked in his head: Buster isn't here. You're wasting your time.
"But then where the hell is he?" Madison said. He raised himself up onto his knees and ticked through his mental Rolodex. Posey wouldn't have gone back to the ballpark. It would be far too dangerous to go somewhere downtown. He could be at a hospital, which would make sense given the blood on the floor. But there were probably dozens of hospitals in the city. He'd never find Buster if he had to go each one and ask around. Madison would have to take a gamble that Buster went back to his own apartment and hope it was the correct choice.
He stood back up and reached into a front pocket of his jeans. He wanted to check the time. He brought his phone out of the pocket and looked at the tiny digital clock at the top of its screen. Then he noticed something unusual. Reception bars. His breath quickened. Reception bars meant he had service. Service meant he could call someone. His first instinct was to call Buster, but then he remembered the catcher's phone lay scattered across the floor in the adjacent room.
"Shit, Bumgarner, think," he said. "Can't waste time."
His index finger shook as it hovered over the phone's keypad. He pressed a button and pushed the phone to his ear.
Germantown, Tennessee -- 5:20 p.m. CST
Chelsea Cain frowned as she peered into the closet. "Honey, do you want to take the black shirt, or your blue one?"
Matt strode into the room, carrying a couple of small boxes. "Get 'em both. Better safe than sorry. Listen, I put some snacks in the car, too. That should get us through until we get to the motel."
"Where's that?"
Matt shrugged. "Until I get tired of driving. Probably somewhere near Tulsa."
"Okay," Chelsea replied, shutting the closet door. "I think we're ready here."
"Where's Hartley?"
"Already in her car seat."
Matt nodded. "All right. You head on out there, I'll make sure we didn't leave anything on."
Chelsea zipped the suitcase and heaved it off their bed. She half-dragged it back through the front of the house and out to their Denali. Matt walked back into the kitchen and glanced at the appliances, making sure the stove was off and the coffee maker unplugged. The phone he placed on the counter began vibrating. Cain decided to let his voicemail pick up the call. And then he looked at the name registered on the glowing screen. He dropped the boxes he'd been holding and seized the buzzing gizmo.
Call from MADISON BUMGARNER
Hudson, North Carolina -- 6:49 p.m. EST
Nick Bumgarner's bags sat in his bedroom, still packed. He sat on the corner of his bed, watching with a numb detachment the television images of the destruction in the Bay Area. It was all he'd done since he arrived back home that afternoon. The whole flight from Dallas to Charlotte was torture. Nick felt like he was being held hostage, kept from knowing what was happening to his brother.
Their father picked him up from Charlotte and drove him back to Hudson, another two hours up into the western North Carolina mountains.
"How bad are they saying it was?" Nick asked.
"An eight."
Nick had heard of earthquake magnitudes in school, and knew the larger the number the worse it was. But the number eight meant little to him.
"Is that bad?"
Mr. Bumgarner stared straight ahead. Nick shifted in his seat and grew quiet. The two of them exchanged not another word until they arrived home.
"Nick?"
His mother's voice startled Nick out of his vigil. He glanced at her, standing in the doorway, then looked back at the flickering TV. "I told you, I'm not hungry," he said.
"You didn't eat anything on the plane."
"Because I'm not hungry, Mom."
Mrs. Bumgarner sized up her youngest son. She decided to drop the argument. She pointed at the television in the corner of the room. "You need to quit watching that for a while."
"Can't."
The downstairs phone rang. "Can you get that?" Mr. Bumgarner shouted.
Mrs. Bumgarner looked back at her youngest son, his eyes still glued to the television. She went back downstairs and picked up the receiver.
Nick was thankful for the interruption and sank back into his numb cocoon. He saw Wolf Blitzer on the television, scowling at a huge wall map of northern California. But he wasn't really listening to the words the anchor was saying. He kept hoping they'd say something about Madison, but he knew it was unlikely. Just then he heard his mother yell "My God!"
He jumped up off the bed and ran to the top of the stairs. His father nearly ran into him as he scrambled out of the bedroom.
"What the hell happened?" Mr. Bumgarner said.
"I don't know!" Nick replied.
They both looked down the stairs to Mrs. Bumgarner. She told the person on the other end to hold on and she clutched the phone to her chest. Her face carried a look of shock.
"It's Matt Cain," she said. "Madison called him. He's all right."
Part Four
Author: 2theletter
Rating: PG (language)
Pairing: Buster Posey/Madison Bumgarner
Synopsis: Now more than six hours after the earthquake, Posey's on his way back to his place. Madison's going in the other direction trying to find him.
Disclaimer: Fiction. Did not happen. Not to be construed as any kid of reflection of reality.
San Francisco - noon PST
The closer Madison got to San Francisco, the more his stomach knotted with tension. Seeing damaged buildings and streets every mile since abandoning his truck on 101, he feared for Buster's safety. He tried calling Posey's cell phone several times, but always received silence in return. As the PG&E truck bounced along, making its deliberate way north, Bumgarner kept reaching into the pocket of his jeans. He let his fingers gloss over the phone's buttons, but resisted the urge to pull it out and try dialing Buster one more time.
He felt the truck shudder to a stop.
"This is as far as I can take you," the driver said.
"Where are we?" Madison asked.
"A little north of Portola," the driver replied. He pointed toward the windshield. "Up there's 280, and on other side is Bernal Heights."
Madison's head drooped. "It's going to take me a long time to get up to Noe Valley, isn't it?"
"I wish I could help you more, but I've got to stay here and try to get some of these broken gas mains under control."
"I know," Bumgarner said. "Thanks for getting me this far."
He threw open the door and hopped out. Just as Madison climbed out of the truck's cab, he heard a deep rumble. The earth under his feet shifted again. Madison froze, gripping the door so tightly he feared it would break off into his hands. The massive truck rocked back-and-forth, as though swaying in a breeze. Bumgarner's heart pounded and he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The shaking was mild, and it lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough to terrify the young man. The PG&E driver peered over the edge of the seats and asked if Madison was okay.
"What the hell was that?" he replied.
"Aftershock," the driver said.
Bumgarner shook his head. "Hell of a place. This is a hell of a place."
He set out along the road, pointing himself in the general direction of Noe Valley. He walked north.
***
It was taking Buster longer than he'd planned to find a way back to his apartment. His thoughts were a little fuzzy as a result of the concussion he sustained in the earthquake. It didn't help that so many streets were blocked off. Familiar landmarks were few and far between. Some had been destroyed in the temblor; others were hidden by clouds of smoke that began to drift in from the north.
He encountered others like him. The walking wounded. People with bandaged heads, or legs stabilized with rudimentary splints, or arms wrapped in T-shirts converted into makeshift tourniquets. And then, of course, people covered in sheets or articles of clothing until their bodies could be hauled away. The lightheadedness and the smoke made Buster ill. He sat down on a curb -- he didn't even know which street -- and put his head in his hands. He sat there, listening to the distant wail of sirens, a broken water main gushing nearby and his own breathing. He wasn't a man of great religious faith, but he wondered if this is what the apocalypse would be like.
"Buster?"
At first, Posey thought he'd imagined hearing his name. There's no way anyone would recognize him amid the chaos.
But then he heard it again.
"Buster!"
The catcher raised his head and looked around. Left, right, left again -- there. On the other side of the street. Zito.
When he locked eyes with Buster, his face brightened. "Shit. I knew it was you!"
He walked across the street and stood in front of the curb, towering over the younger man. "Jesus, what happened to your head?"
"Something hit me in the 'quake. I got a concussion."
Barry knelt in front Posey, examining the gauze around his head. It's was Buster's first look at Zito up-close since the earthquake. The lefty looked pale and drawn, his face seemingly aged ten years in just one day. If this was bad enough to rattle the normally laid-back pitcher, Posey thought, it had to be really bad.
"You're gonna be okay," Zito said. It occurred to Buster that Zito had no medical experience and therefore had no basis for his prognosis. It also occurred to him that his head was pounding, he was dizzy, his boyfriend was missing in the aftermath of a disaster and suddenly he didn't care that Zito didn't have a medical degree.
Buster glanced down and gasped. "Oh God, Z. Your arm."
Zito's right arm was stained rust-red and laced with cuts turned nearly black with clotted blood. He looked down at it and pursed his lips. "I know."
"What happened?"
"I was eating breakfast with a reporter. He was doing some kinda pre-season profile on me. In the middle of it, the 'quake hit. We were sitting next to a window, and when it shattered, we both got cut up pretty bad. I got it worse than him, though. He was wearing a jacket."
"Does it hurt?"
"Like hell. But what am I supposed to do about it? Hospitals are full. Ambulances can't get through. And...well, if this is the worst injury I got, I'm pretty lucky."
Buster nodded. "I know what you mean."
Zito looked around. "Where's Bumgarner? He's close by, yeah?"
Posey shook his head. "I don't know where he is. I haven't seen him since...you know, before. This morning."
"Jesus," Zito said. "I'm sorry, man."
"Do you have any idea where we are?"
"Yeah, we're right next to your place."
Buster's eyes widened. "What? You're shitting me."
"Naw, man. Your apartment's a block over that way." Zito pointed behind Posey's right shoulder. "Just go to the end of this street here, and make a right. You'll be there."
Buster stood and grasped Zito's hand. "Thank you. Thanks a ton. I'd have wandered all over the city looking for it."
"See? Lucky I found you. The day's turning around already."
Posey cocked his head slightly. "Only Barry Zito would still have a sense of humor on a day like this."
Zito was already walking away from him, but he turned to face Posey and walked backwards. "Well, what else are we supposed to do? Right now, humor's about all we got."
Posey waved and Zito went on his way. Posey slowly weaved a path past some abandoned cars and turned right at the intersection, dreading the scene he would find at his own home.
Noe Valley -- 3:00 p.m. PST
Bumgarner's stomach rumbled loudly. He rubbed it and grimaced.
"I know," he said. "I'm tryin' my best."
Talking to himself was something he'd started after he crossed 280. It started out as mutterings to sort out the pattern-less pile of thoughts in his mind, little verbal reminders or musings to himself. Then, it was louder and in full, normal sentences. Now it was conversations with his stomach. If he ever made it through this day alive, Bumgarner told himself, he'd never willingly talk to a part of his body again.
His stomach growled again in response. Madison told it to shut up.
He must have been getting close to Cain's house, he reasoned, because he thought he remembered some of the buildings. Then again, everything seemed so radically different in appearance after the earthquake that he had doubts. But as he crested a small hill, he saw the familiar light blue siding of the place Matt and Chelsea had purchased only a couple of years before. The windows were mostly broken and the eaves tilted at odd angles, but it was their house, all right. Madison put aside his hunger and began jogging, then running, toward the place. He carefully navigated the unstable stairs and saw the front door lodged partially open.
He pushed it open and tentatively stepped into the small front hallway that served as a coat room.
"Buster?" he called. He heard only an echo of his own voice in response.
"Buster, it's me!"
Still nothing. Bumgarner saw the stack of mail Buster had been collecting that week, now scattered across the floor. Broken pipes in the kitchen had mostly given up their pressure, leaving only the repetitive sound of dripping to greet the pitcher. Stepping further into the house, Bumgarner poked his head into the living room. His eyes darted around at the possessions either knocked over or hanging at crazy angles on the wall.
Then he saw blood.
Deep brown dots of dried blood blotted the floor near the coffee table. And there, just a few feet away, Buster's cell phone, broken into pieces.
Madison whirled around and shouted up the narrow stairwell leading to the second floor. "BUSTER! IT'S MADISON! ARE YOU HURT?! ANSWER ME!"
And as the seconds passed with no response, Madison began to panic. The room began to dance and spin in his eyes.
"Buster..."
He dropped to his hands and knees on the floor and gasped for air. He gritted his teeth and waited for the sensation to pass. Finally, it clicked in his head: Buster isn't here. You're wasting your time.
"But then where the hell is he?" Madison said. He raised himself up onto his knees and ticked through his mental Rolodex. Posey wouldn't have gone back to the ballpark. It would be far too dangerous to go somewhere downtown. He could be at a hospital, which would make sense given the blood on the floor. But there were probably dozens of hospitals in the city. He'd never find Buster if he had to go each one and ask around. Madison would have to take a gamble that Buster went back to his own apartment and hope it was the correct choice.
He stood back up and reached into a front pocket of his jeans. He wanted to check the time. He brought his phone out of the pocket and looked at the tiny digital clock at the top of its screen. Then he noticed something unusual. Reception bars. His breath quickened. Reception bars meant he had service. Service meant he could call someone. His first instinct was to call Buster, but then he remembered the catcher's phone lay scattered across the floor in the adjacent room.
"Shit, Bumgarner, think," he said. "Can't waste time."
His index finger shook as it hovered over the phone's keypad. He pressed a button and pushed the phone to his ear.
Germantown, Tennessee -- 5:20 p.m. CST
Chelsea Cain frowned as she peered into the closet. "Honey, do you want to take the black shirt, or your blue one?"
Matt strode into the room, carrying a couple of small boxes. "Get 'em both. Better safe than sorry. Listen, I put some snacks in the car, too. That should get us through until we get to the motel."
"Where's that?"
Matt shrugged. "Until I get tired of driving. Probably somewhere near Tulsa."
"Okay," Chelsea replied, shutting the closet door. "I think we're ready here."
"Where's Hartley?"
"Already in her car seat."
Matt nodded. "All right. You head on out there, I'll make sure we didn't leave anything on."
Chelsea zipped the suitcase and heaved it off their bed. She half-dragged it back through the front of the house and out to their Denali. Matt walked back into the kitchen and glanced at the appliances, making sure the stove was off and the coffee maker unplugged. The phone he placed on the counter began vibrating. Cain decided to let his voicemail pick up the call. And then he looked at the name registered on the glowing screen. He dropped the boxes he'd been holding and seized the buzzing gizmo.
Call from MADISON BUMGARNER
Hudson, North Carolina -- 6:49 p.m. EST
Nick Bumgarner's bags sat in his bedroom, still packed. He sat on the corner of his bed, watching with a numb detachment the television images of the destruction in the Bay Area. It was all he'd done since he arrived back home that afternoon. The whole flight from Dallas to Charlotte was torture. Nick felt like he was being held hostage, kept from knowing what was happening to his brother.
Their father picked him up from Charlotte and drove him back to Hudson, another two hours up into the western North Carolina mountains.
"How bad are they saying it was?" Nick asked.
"An eight."
Nick had heard of earthquake magnitudes in school, and knew the larger the number the worse it was. But the number eight meant little to him.
"Is that bad?"
Mr. Bumgarner stared straight ahead. Nick shifted in his seat and grew quiet. The two of them exchanged not another word until they arrived home.
"Nick?"
His mother's voice startled Nick out of his vigil. He glanced at her, standing in the doorway, then looked back at the flickering TV. "I told you, I'm not hungry," he said.
"You didn't eat anything on the plane."
"Because I'm not hungry, Mom."
Mrs. Bumgarner sized up her youngest son. She decided to drop the argument. She pointed at the television in the corner of the room. "You need to quit watching that for a while."
"Can't."
The downstairs phone rang. "Can you get that?" Mr. Bumgarner shouted.
Mrs. Bumgarner looked back at her youngest son, his eyes still glued to the television. She went back downstairs and picked up the receiver.
Nick was thankful for the interruption and sank back into his numb cocoon. He saw Wolf Blitzer on the television, scowling at a huge wall map of northern California. But he wasn't really listening to the words the anchor was saying. He kept hoping they'd say something about Madison, but he knew it was unlikely. Just then he heard his mother yell "My God!"
He jumped up off the bed and ran to the top of the stairs. His father nearly ran into him as he scrambled out of the bedroom.
"What the hell happened?" Mr. Bumgarner said.
"I don't know!" Nick replied.
They both looked down the stairs to Mrs. Bumgarner. She told the person on the other end to hold on and she clutched the phone to her chest. Her face carried a look of shock.
"It's Matt Cain," she said. "Madison called him. He's all right."
Part Four