Cumbre Vieja - I'm glad this didn't happen

 Extract from my novel '2012' written in 2003:

(see my Newsletter 28th October for an explanation)

Islas Canarias, España,

Martes, 11 de diciembre de 2012

 

The deep indigo raw energy hovered over the area where the Halcón del Mar had been only instants before. Then, somehow sensing its destiny lay elsewhere, it drew back into itself, until it formed a dense purple fog, its shape elongated towards the north, as though drawn by some invisible wire. Slowly at first, then with determined speed, the purple haze arrowed almost due north. It raced barely half a meter above the ocean, following the contours of the waves like a supernatural cruise missile. Hapless birds that had cause to cross its path simply disappeared as soon as the indigo vapor caressed their bodies. Two pleasure craft, navigating in the tranquil waters, met the same fate. The speed of the purple haze was now beyond anything man could manufacture. It took only a couple of minutes to find its destination; the island of La Palma.

As the energy crossed the coastline, it slowed dramatically, rising higher and higher. It rose above the Teneguía Volcano, hovering for a moment, then moving on. It passed over the town of Fuencaliente de la Palma, rising higher and yet higher. Finally it stopped. Below it, directly below, was the central cone of the dormant Cumbre Vieja volcano.

The energy descended, dissipating into the dark, cold, solidified lava of the volcano and down, into its heart. There, deep in the Earth’s mantle, it encountered the chamber containing hot magma awaiting release. The energy seemed to mix with the dense, slow-moving liquid, agitating, pushing, pressuring. After a few minutes, the magma and its scalding gases started to surge upwards, searching for channels in the rock, ways to ease the painful pressure taking hold of its innards. Upwards, outwards, until it burst forth into the air, with a shower of molten lava, reaching almost a kilometer in height.

As this first lava shower was falling to earth, the volcano continued to spew more and more of the molten brew, creating a fiery funnel of intense heat; tones of red liquid, belching into the placid sky. The fountain of blasted gases and rocky fluid ejected a huge, ominous cloud far into the atmosphere. The old volcano was active again as never before. Its very structure straining under the immense forces inflicted upon it.

The ground around the volcano, under a now constant vertical shower of lava, began to shake. The movement became increasingly violent as the sudden release of the stresses, built up in the volcano’s core, slammed against the earth’s crust. Old fault lines were ripped opened, new gorges torn. Ravines, rooted deep within the island’s base, filled rapidly by lava flowing prodigiously from the volcano’s cone. This in turn generated steam as liquid fire met seawater. Huge grey-white clouds billowed up, mixing in a surreal way with the dark smoke issuing from the volcano. The steam created even more pressure until the first few tons of earth began slipping into the sea. As gravity took over, the movement increased. The earth shook as though trying to rid itself of the stresses within, loosening large portions of its structure. The westward side of the island, millions upon millions of cubic tons of rock, plummeted into the ocean.

At first, the ocean seemed to devour the debris; gradually it reacted. Salt water began to sprout from the ocean’s depths, displaced by the landslip. Its watery mass grew, wider and higher, as the ocean’s anger at being invaded, was spent in jettisoning its liquid protest. A dome of solid water formed, each second adding to its girth and height. At its zenith, it reached over five hundred meters, it diameter many tens of kilometers. It fought against the Earth’s gravity, striving to release energy anywhere but into the oceans, seeking its freedom from the constraints placed by natural forces. As the watery cupola formed, the rocks and terrain forming the western part of the island, were exposed.

There came a quiet moment when all was in equilibrium. The water’s upward pressure equaled the grip of gravity. Then this brief instant of respite was over. Gravity exerted its control over the water’s mass. The dome collapsed, millions upon millions of liters of seawater came crashing down into the ocean, dragging with it the landslip terrain, taking it further under its surface.

The water cascade slammed against the ocean’s bed with colossal force, tearing into the rocks and creating more liquid destruction. Then, as though not satisfied with the outcome of its previous battle with the Earth, it rebounded upwards again, carrying in its form the same rocks that had formed the island only minutes before.

This cocktail was expulsed upward as the ocean sought a catharsis from the unnatural state imposed upon it. This time, gravity was waiting; not caught unaware as before. Its inexorable pressure exerted on the watery mass. The ocean fought back, gurgling, spurting, but to no avail. The unrelenting primal forces of nature won out again. The mixture of rocks, debris and water, in a dark, impenetrable frenzy, came plummeting down onto the ocean floor deep below.

Still the battle was not over. Unable to claim victory over the domain of air, the water’s energy retook its control over its own element. Aided by the rocky debris moving in its depths, it started to twist upon itself. Gradually currents were formed, each stronger than the preceding. They surged outwards and upwards. A wall of water, still only a few meters in height, started to form and move away from the island and the volcano.

It moved north, west and south, evidence of its passage above the ocean’s surface limited to the wave. Its power, its threat lay hidden, travelling along with accumulating kinetic motion, closely pursuing the visible wave. The rolling runaway moved outward, expanding its liquid edges, reaching out with its dynamic destructiveness, seeking the solace of vengeance against dry land. A tsunami had been born! A mega-tsunami! Greater, more deadly, than any foregoing it. A watery beast, seeking, hungrily devouring the kilometers separating it from its prey.

 

 Atlantic Ocean, 

Tuesday, 11th December, 2012

 

In the first five minutes after its traumatic birth, the tsunami wave travelled one hundred and sixty kilometers to the north. The first major landfall to the north was the Iberian Peninsula. In the neighboring countries of Spain and Portugal, people went on with their daily lives unaware of the threat racing towards them.

César Gil enjoyed fishing. Enjoy was a tame word. It was far more accurate to say he had counted every minute of last Friday, his last day at work. Now, a retiree, with a healthy constitution and money well-saved over the years, he fulfilled his life’s dream of purchasing a motor cruiser; nothing flashy, just solid with two dependable Volvo diesels. He spent most of yesterday loading it up with provisions, bait and tackle, ready to travel out to the Canary Islands to the south. He would spend his days fishing, drinking cold beer and enjoying the excellent climate of the Fortunate Islands, as they were known. He left the port of Huelva, in southern Spain, early in the morning, wanting to make the long journey south-west and reach his destination over the next two days. Now, in the middle of the afternoon, he was sitting in the cabin of the motor cruiser, looking at the horizon ahead, at the dark mist that seemed to have come from nowhere. He glanced down and checked the radar. He picked up the updated weather report he had collected from the port authority that morning. A cold front was moving in, so it said, but from the north, behind him. Further south, it was supposed to be clear and sunny, which was certainly what he had experienced so far. He was a seasoned pleasure boat sailor and roughed it out in stormy weather before, so he was not too worried. He reached over to his left and grabbed the large binoculars. He twisted the focal knob and the image became clear; he contemplated a black wall of water to both port and starboard, as far as he could see. It appeared to be moving fast, visibly growing in size as it closed on his fragile craft. He became worried. Never had he encountered anything like this. He grabbed the radio mike and called out a Mayday warning. A Spanish Civil Guard Coastguard vessel answered, indicating they were not far away. He was about to explain the nature of his predicament when the wave breached the bow of the cruiser. He was fortunate his craft had been prow-on to the direction of the wave. The tsunami’s height, in these deep waters, was only six meters. Nevertheless, the motor cruiser was flipped over on its back. César was flung from the cabin into the air. He splashed into the cold waters and went under. His life jacket automatically inflated and its buoyancy rushed him to the surface. Spluttering, he tried to get his bearings. He could see the wave receding into the distance; he could feel the undertow pulling at his submerged body. He paddled around in a circle. There was no sign of his motor cruiser. At that precise moment, he realized just how lucky he was. He started to cry uncontrollably.

Captain Miguel Barrios of the Civil Guard craft that had answered César´s call for help, order maximum speed. He, and his crew of eight, felt the deep vibrations as the engines of the military vessel powered them forward towards the blip on the radar that was the motor cruiser. It was still a few kilometers dead ahead, but they were closing fast. The forward lookout called to him. He raised his eyes from the radar in time to see the wall of water approaching. He instinctively looked down at the radar screen; the motor cruiser was no longer registering. He turned to the helmsman, about to issue the order to turn head-on into the wave, when the helmsman also saw the tsunami. Instinctively the man turned the wheel, assuming a course in an attempt to outrun the wave. That mistake killed all on board. The wave hit broadside, flipping the vessel over and under. The fierce undercurrents did the rest. No one surfaced.

      Charo Gutierrez liked the port of Cádiz on Spain’s southern coast. She was born there, and spent most of her short life breathing its clean, salty air. Now she felt a change in the atmosphere. Her senses detected a decent in air pressure. She looked down at the water’s edge and saw it had dropped. On the horizon, a dark mass was approaching quickly. She cried out, trying for the attention of her mother who was talking to a couple of their neighbors. Her mother looked over, smiling. Then she saw the wave. It was now over fifty meter high and growing. It slammed into the port, taking little Charo, her baby carriage, her mother and her mother’s friends in its first swallow. 

The city of Lisbon, capital of Portugal, had been a wise choice for Doctor da Costa. When she graduated as a fully-qualified Dentist, she saw greater opportunities for her future in the nation’s capital, than in her home of Coimbra, in the north. The move south was blessed by the finding of a superb location for her clinic, halfway up the side of one of the low hills overlooking the busy harbor. The view infused tranquility in her patients, something she found useful, as she probed around their mouths. Her practice had built rapidly, partly due to her skill and partly because of the ambience of classical music and magnificent scene. Many regulars had even taken photographs, through the panoramic windows, of the harbor view. It would be night in a couple of hours and the lights on the shipping in the harbor were to provide their usual spectacle. She was especially happy today. It was her first Anniversary, and her husband would soon be here to collect her, and whisk her off to whatever surprise he had organized. She was concentrating on extracting a badly decayed premolar, humming along to the symphony playing softly in the background, when a dark shadow made her look up. The cargo container that crushed the lives of both her and her patient had been torn from the superstructure of a ship heading into the harbor. The wave’s fury used the debris it had created, to demolish everything it encountered in its path.

Paulo Alves Silva was driving along the Avenida da Liberdade. He too was beaming a happy smile at the world today. Who would have thought a trip to the dentist two years ago would result in celebrating his wedding anniversary today? He had found far more beauty in the deep brown eyes of the Doctor than in the spectacular harbor view in the clinic. He had left his job at the bank earlier today to make a quick trip to his wife’s favorite restaurant, in the nearby Rua de São José, making a reservation for tonight. Hand-picked, freshly broiled lobster accompanied by a smoky-flavored Ribeira wine. His mouth watered at the thought. He had driven past the Bank headquarters building where he worked, when the wave encountered him. His car was propelled through the armored glass windows of the Bank. Although it was of little consolation, the wave had taken both him and his wife within the same minute.

A little further down the Avenida, nearer its junction with the Plaça dos Restauradores, the history teacher Anibal Carvalho saw the wave hurtling down the wide thoroughfare. He turned to his right and started to sprint up the steep incline of the funicular railway. As he ran, strange thoughts crept unbidden into his mind. Lisbon in 1755, first an earthquake, then a tsunami tried to destroy the city. It survived, just! Then in 1988, a fire raged through the main shopping district. The city again survived. Now, this! He gritted his teeth in determination, just as the watery fingers of death reached out and snatched his life.

Further along the Portuguese coast to the north, at the mouth of the Douro River, lay the city of Oporto, famous for the sweet wine that took its name. The wine warehouses, sited for the most part in the suburb of Vila Nova de Gaia on the opposite bank of the river, succumbed to the kinetic force of the wall of water. The great oaken casks, containing millions of liters of the dark wine, flattened, their contents lost within the maelstrom of swirling seawater. The city fared little better. The wave crashed into the harbor, running up the narrow, cobbled streets of the old quarter towards the cathedral situated at the top of the hill. Both it, and the seventy-five meter tall Clerics Tower, were engulfed. The Cathedral had resisted all since the twelfth century, and put up a gallant fight against the power of the waters. The granite Tower, however, was swept away, snapped like a matchstick, scattered like dust.

An hour elapsed since the birth of the tsunami. More than seven million people had died. The liquid raced on, northward.

As usual, he was shouting at the Nigerian. The man made an effort to do things right, he begrudgingly admitted to himself, but he was no sailor. Hector Ney, now into his sixtieth year at sea, looked over his shoulder and called out to Shehu Abiola. He was about to lose the tackle overboard. He released the wheel and strode aft to help the man stow the nets. The wind had dropped in the last few minutes here in the Bay of Biscay. He looked up and could just make out his home port of La Rochelle. Well, tonight, when they unloaded the day’s catch, he was going to tell the Nigerian to find another job. He did not have either the time or the patience to teach the youngster the trade of a fisherman. He was so intent on untangling the netting at his feet, he did not hear Abiola´s shout at first. He looked up, about to speak, and then saw the wall of water, almost upon them. Abiola was quicker; he jumped onto Hector and toppled them both overboard. As the wave took the boat, its treacherous undercurrents pulled at Hector and Abiola. The Nigerian used all of his strength to hold on to the old man, kicking his powerful legs against the undertow. His lungs were bursting, desperate for air. The turbulence such, he was not even sure he was swimming towards the surface. The old man was now limp in his arms, all the fight gone from his aged body. They broke the surface, Abiola gasping in huge lungful of salty air. He looked at his boss; he was all right, he would live. 

Danielle Chabrol loved to walk along the breakwater at La Rochelle. The port was, as usual, a hive of activity. Small fishing vessels arriving, unloading their catch. A large freighter setting off, who knows where? Danielle dreamt of boarding such a freighter one day, sailing away to see the world. A world she only read about in books and magazines, or saw in films and documentaries. One day, she thought, when I have saved enough money, I will quit my job at the patisserie and take a passage to somewhere exotic. To start a new life. These thoughts went through her mind, as almost every day for the past forty years, while she strolled along the breakwater. She looked down at her feet, her shoes damp from the waves lapping onto the cement surface. She closed her eyes, dreaming awake of the caress of a fine, temperate breeze, of the sultry rays of a tropical sun. She never saw Hector Ney´s fishing boat as it smashed into her, carried on the crest of the wave.

The town of Brighton, on the south coast of Britain, was well past its heyday as a top Victorian tourist attraction. Its seaside charms only attracted families in the warmer, summer months now. At this time of year, the promenade was sparsely populated by old-age pensioners, for the most part. Charlie Beran knew the pickings from one of these old codgers was usually not worth the effort, but the hollowness in his stomach, the itching on his forearm, the aching in his very soul told him he had to find a victim quickly. He walked briskly along the promenade, noticing how his disheveled appearance made women clutch their bags closely, as he approached. He saw a man, walking with the aid of a cane, a few meters further on. He slipped his right hand into his anorak pocket, fingering the short, kitchen knife hidden there. He approached the man. When he was a couple of meters distant, he drew the knife, seeing a look of pure terror come into the face of the pensioner. A cry escaped the old man’s mouth, as both he and his would be assailant were lifted by the wall of water, and accelerated landward at over three hundred kilometers an hour.

Kenneth Lee was aware something was happening. He noticed the whole train had started to accelerate as though pushed forwards. He glanced outside the cabin of the Eurostar and could see the spot of light, the French end of the undersea tunnel, a couple of kilometers ahead. He looked at the control panel in front of him, seeing the speed indicator creeping forward; it now read one hundred and forty kilometers an hour, ten more than it should. He had driven the Eurostar trains since they first came into service and had a feel for their performance. The train emerged from the tunnel at Coquelles, inland from Calais. He looked out of the right-hand side window of the cabin and what he saw made him ram the control lever to full. The wall of water was engulfing all in its path. It was still quite a few kilometers away, but getting nearer every second. The train surged forward, its powerful engines responding to his urging. It was a race he was determined to win. The wave advanced but either it was slowing down, or the train was gaining on it, he was not sure. He rocked forward, as though these little pushes would add a few more kilometers to the train’s speed. He saw a red light ahead, but did not slow down. A crash was preferable to the monster following them. He called up the control room on his radio and quickly informing them of the emergency, requesting green lights all the way. As he watched, the red light became green. Thank the Gods, he thought. He looked out of the side window again. Yes, he was winning the battle. The water had ceased to advance.

The Eurostar train pulled into the Gare du Nord in Paris and drew to a halt. Even before the first passengers were able to disembark, Kenneth Lee threw open the door to the cabin and jumped down. The Stationmaster was waiting for him at the head of the platform. Lee ran up and started to tell of the wave, his words jumbling out in his nervous excitement.

 

Eurostar, London to Paris,

Tuesday, 11th December, 2012

 

They hid Yakshi´s father in a self-catering apartment in Bayswater, hired in Grey’s new name. They stocked up his refrigerator and freezer with enough food for a month and left him with a mobile telephone, also bought using Grey’s alias. All was done yesterday. Now they were travelling again. They walked to Speaker’s Corner near Hyde Park, taking a cab from there directly to Saint Pancras Station. They bought two one-way tickets on the next Eurostar to Paris. They had almost an hour and a quarter to wait for departure, so they went to the nearest snack bar and ordered four coffees, two of which were immediately poured into the thermos. They then went to a bookstore in the station and purchased a dozen novels. Grey explained they would need to entertain themselves for many hours in the next couple of weeks, but he did not offer any further explanation.

When the time came, they neared the automated check-in gates, presented their tickets to the validation machine, and advanced to the security control. There they placed their backpacks on the X-ray machine’s rubber belt and walked through the metal detector. Grey had explained to Yakshi the hi-tech lining of the thermos would effectively show the x-ray operator the thermos was indeed what it appeared to be. He commented the thermos had cost more to develop than the weapons often transported within. Sure enough, they passed through security without any problems. Then Passport Control where their UK passports were hardly even glanced at. They walked down the platform and found their carriage.

Leaving in the early afternoon on a midweek day, many of the seats were empty and they took full advantage of the space by placing their backpacks on the adjacent seats. They moved with purpose now. Grey had a clear idea of where they were going and how they were going to get there. He refrained from discussing his plan with Will Abrams however. This was not a lack of confidence. Rather a precaution, in case Sirtak and Paredes discovered Yakshi´s father. At least that was what Grey told them. In truth, Grey had other plans, part of which he had no intention of sharing, even with Yakshi, until he had to.

The train left on time, true British punctuality, and after leaving the suburbs of London, soon picked up speed as it headed east towards the Channel. Grey went to the buffet car and bought sandwiches and more coffees. He took advantage of his trip to look closely at the other passengers. He was expecting trouble, eventually, but if his plan worked, they would not be seeing the Ophites for a few days yet. He returned to their seats and shared the food and coffee with Yakshi.

They were approaching the entrance to the Channel Tunnel. The train slowed down to the speed permitted in the tunnel, and was now passing the marshalling yards on the left. They were plunged into darkness as they entered the tunnel and their eyes slowly became accustomed to the artificial lighting in the train.   

Grey had made this trip innumerable times and knew they would be in the tunnel for a little over thirty-five minutes. He started to relax for the first time in many a week. He could see how things were coming together now and, with a little good fortune and planning, this waking nightmare would soon be over.

He must have dozed for a few minutes, because he woke with a start. Yakshi was asleep beside him. He woke her.

“What’s up?”

“Something’s wrong!”

“What? What’s wrong?” Truthfully, Grey was not sure. Then it came to him. They were still in the tunnel but accelerating. He felt his ears popping and opened his mouth to relieve the pressure. This was not normal. He looked out the window of the train at the wall as it rushed by. There seemed to be a luminescence down here, a light that did not belong in the tunnel. He could also hear, faintly, a rumbling sound beneath the noise of the train itself. He noticed other seasoned passengers were also looking around nervously.

Then the train exploded from the tunnel, definitely moving faster than was normal. Grey started to stand but was pushed back into his seat as the train lurched forward.

“Mon Deux!” screamed a passenger behind him. Grey turned. The man was pointing out of the right-hand side window. Grey shifted his gaze. A dark mass, many, many meters tall was clawing its way across the land, reaching out towards the train. At first he could not comprehend what he was seeing. They it dawned on him. It was a tsunami. A huge killer wave. It was gaining on the train, slowly, inexorably. It did not look as if they were going to make it. People screamed, cried, prayers were said.

At first, he did not notice, but then he became aware the wave had diminished in size and was slowing down. The train was advancing much faster than the water, slowly pulling away. As realization hit the passengers, a loud, spontaneous cheer went up. Grey joined in unashamedly.

Later, as they disembarked at the Gare du Nord, they felt light-headed. They had escaped, by some miracle, the very wrath of Nature itself. Now, as they walked past a train driver, excitedly yelling at a railway official, Grey hoped their luck would hold out a little longer.

 

 Atlantic Ocean & Eastern Seaboard, USA,

Tuesday, 11th December, 2012

 

The swell of water approached the coast of the country of Western Sahara. As it entered the shallower waters, its height increased. Millions upon millions of cubic liters of seawater constructed an impenetrable wall. When it came ashore, the wave reached a height a little under a hundred meters. It swept inland, taking with it everything it encountered in its watery rage. This happened less than an hour after the landslide. The swell spread out in all directions. Western Sahara was the closest major landfall and as such was the first, other than the Canary Islands themselves, to be affected.

Like some kind of savage beast, its thirst not assuaged by this part of the African continent, it headed south, hitting the Cape Verde Islands devastatingly hard.

Its merciless appetite for more propelled it westwards. The swell barely noticeable as it traversed the ocean’s upper layers. The first victims, in its western expansion, were the tranquil Portuguese islands of Madeira, Porto Santo and Ilhas Desertas. The wave rose again and engulfed Ilhas Desertas with one aqueous swallow. Porto Santo fared little better. Only the main island of Madeira survived, in part, as the sixty meter wave consumed Funchal and Santa Cruz. The deadly waters crashed up against the higher ground on the south of the island and returned to the sea, leaving death and desolation in its wake.

In the two hours since the landslide on the island of La Palma, the wave picked up force and speed. The tsunami warning system, deployed in the Atlantic Ocean after the Indonesian Tsunami of 2004, noted the passing of the menace. Automatic radio signals were emitted to the United States Coastguard stations in Southern Florida, the only ones functioning after the electromagnetic pulse. There, the coastguards monitoring their equipment could only pray. Evacuation was impossible for a large area of the Eastern Seaboard, even though hours still remained. Several left their posts, running out to claim their cars and head home, advising their families to grab what they could, rushing to put as much distance between themselves and the eastern coastline as possible. Sirens wailed. Storm warnings howled. The radio and television broadcast their dire news. The panic started!

An hour later, it was the turn of the Portuguese again. The seven islands forming the Azores saw their watery destiny too late to react. The crushing momentum of the water overwhelmed the islands, swamping almost all the land surface. Only a small area of Ilha de Sao Miguel and Ilha Terceira remained dry. The wave reached its maximum speed of eight hundred kilometers an hour now. The thrust of the liquid fallout was unstoppable. Headlong it went, forever westward.

Oceangoing transports tossed like so many matchsticks, propelled forward and downward as the kinetic energy of the swell caught them. Badly needed aid for the ravaged Eastern States sacrificed to the depths.

Onward and onward, the impetus of the swell emerging upward only as it approached shallower waters. By a quirk of geography, the first landfall on the United States was at Cape Cod in Massachusetts. The omnipotent fluid rose to a height of over a hundred meters. Its mortal majesty mesmerized those who caught sight of its growth from the blue-green depths. They knew, in that instant, although the water was still kilometers away, there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide from its potency. Many knelt, praying for their end to be swift, painless. Others cried. Some laughed at the cruel joke that spared them from the pulse only to snuff out their existence when they least expected it. Husbands turned to wives. Lovers embraced. Mothers shielded their children, uselessly. It would forgive none. It wanted all. It was insatiable. Natural violence of the like humankind had never experienced. It was here; now!

Nantucket Island sank. Debris, human remains, vehicles, houses, unidentifiable objects carried along with crushing force, razing all in its path, leaving absolute destruction in its wake.

Long Island Sound channeled the water’s temper against the City of New York. New Haven, Bridgeport, Stamford, and then Yonkers. New York’s fifty islands and millions of people, pulped by the hydrous steamroller. The skyscrapers of Manhattan saved many, acting as breakwaters. The lives of those on the lower floors were expunged by the irresistible combination of debris and fluid. Some of the buildings gave under the smothering pressure; their foundations never meant to withstand this punishment. The Big Apple, consumed. Staten Island Ferry boats flung against the island. The waters levelled where they could; shattered where they encountered opposition.  

Aircraft descending to land at JFK, La Guardia and Newark were plucked from the sky. The tunnels, so essential for the New Yorkers´ transit, were filled with deadly damp detritus. The unlucky few, trapped in diminishing air pockets, destined to expire unseen, unheard. The Statue of Liberty raised a defiant hand against the onslaught, unknowingly mimicking the ancient King Canute commanding the waters desist. It prevailed for a few seconds, resisting the pitiless pushing of the wave, its torch finally smothered in sunken depths. 

And yet the monster’s appetite was still insatiate. Down the coast it rode, penetrating inland for many miles; quashing people, bulldozing whole townships, liquefying man’s attempts to shape nature.

The first of the big cities affected by the pulse was next. The waters engulfed much of New Jersey, the indentation of Delaware Bay serving to funnel the wet wildness toward Wilmington and then southern Philadelphia. The pulse had eliminated the means to advise the people. Only a few heard through the limited radio stations now functioning. They ran causing stampedes as word spread of the imminent extinction. Stampedes that claimed even more lives.

The Delmarva Peninsula helped reduce the impact against the Capital. Ocean City became a watery grave for many. The waters slammed into Newport News and Hampton, diverting northwards again seeking to show the once-powerful nation that nature held sway. Saluda welcomed the aquatic extermination preceding the advance on to Richmond.

Into Chesapeake Bay, the deadly swamp advanced; the Capital beckoned, daring. The pulverizing force of the tsunami spent itself slowly as it rose towards the center of world democracy. The level of the wave dropping until, as though completing a mission, it lapped against the pedestal of the Washington Monument; the obelisk staunching the flow where Lady Liberty had failed.

And still there was more! The Southern States challenged! The humid element accepted! Imposing its might on the dry shoreline and then inwards, joining its immense volume with rivers, lakes; filling valleys, drowning all life; throwing debris ahead as it smashed its way south. Almost nine hours since the watery genesis, and Charleston was annihilated. Then Savannah, and onwards into Florida.

The smaller coastal towns were no match for its mortal ruin. People tried to run before it, knowing it was a hopeless gesture, but at least they could not see death’s thrust, their lives pulverized in chaotic instants as the mix of vehicles, boats, wood from houses, signs, and countless objects deracinated in its onslaught, hit them seconds before the seawater.

As the wave consumed Jacksonville, much further south it was already arriving at the Caribbean islands. Antigua, Barbados, the picturesque beauty of Martinique; all raped by the savage liquid. Santa Lucia, Grenada, Trinidad and Tobago and the northern coast of Venezuela, Guyana, Suriname all fell beneath the suffocating waters. Caracas was hit especially hard. Miraflores, the Presidential Palace, was demolished, as was the entire city centre.

It dumped itself on Puerto Rico and then westwards to the main tourist areas of the Dominican Republic. The Island of Hispaniola, the Dominican Republic and Haiti, served as a breakwater to protect Jamaica and southern Cuba from the worst of the crushing water. The north coast of Cuba fared much worse. Whole houses lifted and discarded, primal screams lost in the roar as the wave demanded more sacrifice.

The Bahamas were little obstacle for the flexing watery sinews of the monster. The smaller, outlying islands had their existence blinked out mercilessly. The shallower waters between them and the inner islands gave new energy to the aquatic menace. Nassau was propelled into the sea, violently, ruinously. Now the waters rampaged onwards, covering the nautical miles of the Straits of Florida, laying waste to any brave enough, or stupid enough, to be out in seagoing craft. Big, small it made no difference to the unstoppable destroyer.

To the north, the flat, uniform lands around Cape Canaveral were easy prey. The wave levelled NASA´s installations and swamped inland as far as Orlando. The theme park facilities would be no more; ravaged by the monster’s impetus. Take all! Leave nothing! This was the beast’s credo. Shatter, tear, erase, flatten, drench.

Palm Beach; Fort Lauderdale; Miami. The monster rose from the beaches, exterminating man’s mark on the land. The Miami coast’s more than four million had fled, hours before, when the Coastguard had given the news to the incredulous population. Some stayed, unwilling or unable to leave. They met their watery destiny almost willingly, resignedly. One group of young people, high on all the drugs they managed to find, even tried to surf the wave, ineffectually throwing away their lives as the beast devoured them without pity, their corpses pulped and mangled as the wave encountered further obstacles. Aircraft of all sizes were shredded on the ground in the airports. The devastation suffered by the city was incomparable even to that caused by so many hurricanes in its past. Fate had taken the City of Miami, laughed at its name, which in Tequesta meant “Big Water”, and submerged it, extinguishing all life forms.

Some survived. The Orca killer whales on show at the Miami Seaquarium were unceremoniously freed from their enclosures. Disoriented, disavowed, they were returned to their wild state.

The wave rushed into the Everglades; no resistance, uprooting the prehistoric alligators and taking them away from their ancestral home. Birds launched themselves skywards in time to avoid the crushing wall of water, and high above they circled, mute observers to the progress of the tsunami, content in a primeval way at the pickings in its wake.

The Florida Keys, all but ground down. The Causeway toppled into the depths, isolating the islands. Fishing boats, pleasure craft, large yachts; none were a match for the slamming liquid. Most were scuppered instantly; some held sway on the crest for seemingly interminable moments, only to be dashed against the land.

The wave burst into the Gulf of Mexico now. Spreading out, losing some of its momentum in the slow-moving, brown waters. New Orleans´ levees were once again demolished, the city swallowed, the southern oil refineries steamrollered into nonexistence.

To the north, in Washington DC, President Page ventured from the White House Bunker. A military helicopter took him, General Westmann, Kathleen O’Neill and Phil Mautaugh over the city and up the coast. Words were not said. Eyes looked desperately for evidence of survivors. The Capital had been spared, but the nation suffered to an extent even man would be hard put to emulate. John Page sat looking, desolately, out of one of the side windows of the helicopter, the Pilot’s commentary spilling into his deaf ears through the headphones. Tears rolled, uncontrolled, down his face. He felt helpless. The Most Powerful man on the Planet, as the tabloids liked to refer to him, humbled by this beast. Instinctively, then, he knew. The United States of America would not be able to recover from this disaster and remain the World’s leader. In a matter of hours, they had been relegated to the status of a third world nation. Worse! In the west, life went on, almost as normal. Money was being made, lives were lived. A wistful though crept into his mind. Where should the new Capital be? Los Angeles or San Francisco? Maybe Vegas; far from the threats of nature. History had not been written today; history was irrelevant. Was this the beginning of the end?