Into the Firestorm (6 page)

Nick tried to pull himself up.
Bam!
He was thrown back onto the floor. And then the floor itself began to twist, shake, roll. The room erupted into a sick, violent motion.

CRASH

RUMBLE

CRACK

Nick’s world shifted. Fast, faster. Everything began shaking faster than Nick could take in. He felt tiny, like an ant caught in a tumble of motion.

Nick saw things fly through the air, though his mind couldn’t make sense of it.

First the table. The table shook and turned over. The water pitcher shot across the room and shattered, splashing water everywhere.

The bookcase in the corner toppled over, sending books and the photograph of Mr. Pat and his family crashing to the floor.

Something hit Nick’s head. Plaster from the ceiling. From somewhere beyond his little room he heard rumblings, thunder-like roars, cracklings.

Get out. I need to get out. The building’s falling down.

Shakespeare!
Nick tried to shout the dog’s name, but his voice didn’t seem to work. He tried to find him, to stand, but he couldn’t control his body.

SLAM

He fell back. His elbow banged hard.

The room trembled. Floor, ceiling, walls, objects, everything seemed to be dancing, rolling, moving.

For a second, the shaking let up. Then it started in again, violent and more twisting. An image flashed through Nick’s mind of Gran wringing clothes over the wash tin with her rough, strong hands. That was it. The earth was being wrung out of shape.

Nick shivered. He was in a tiny boat being tossed and rolled on a great stormy sea. At any second, a hole would open and he would fall through. Fall through and disappear, disappear into black emptiness.

Nick cried out.

He’d never been so terrified. It wasn’t like seeing a snake writhing toward him in the grass. Or even the fear of Pa’s temper after a Saturday night in town. This was bigger. A terror of something enormous, violent, menacing, unknown. It was all happening so fast, Nick couldn’t give it a name.

And then from somewhere, his brain coughed up a word.

Earthquake!
He was in an earthquake.

Earthquakes. Miss Reedy had talked about earthquakes in California, something about the pieces of the earth, shifting deep underground. In a way, just naming it made Nick a little less scared.

Earthquake. The world’s not really ending. It’s an earthquake.

And then, in the next second, everything shifted again. The shaking stopped. The air, the ground went still.

Nick coughed. The little room was filled with dust. He didn’t know how long the fierce trembling had lasted. Thirty seconds? A full minute?

I’m alive,
he thought.
I’m still alive.

“Shakespeare?” Nick called.

Nick looked around, suddenly panicked. “Shake? Here, boy!”

The room seemed empty. Then all at once Nick heard a scuffling noise. In the gray light he saw Shakespeare emerge from behind the sofa.

The dog’s dark eyes looked bright and wild. He planted his feet far apart, as though trying to steady himself. His long, feathery tail was tucked down between his legs. Suddenly Shake raised his muzzle and howled once. Then he barked at the air and ran toward the stairway.

Nick’s knees were shaking so hard he didn’t think he could walk. He fumbled, half crawling, across the dim, dusty room. At the top of the stairs, the door had flown open. Before Nick could stop him, Shake had darted out into the street.

“No, wait! Shakespeare, come back. Here, boy,” Nick yelled.

He’s looking for Mr. Pat,
Nick thought, springing into action.

Nick reached the street. Shakespeare was nowhere to be seen.

A
FTERSHOCKS

“Shakespeare?” Nick called. “Shake. Here, boy!”

Jackson Street was empty and suddenly still. Nick looked up and down. He couldn’t see anyone, not a dog or another person. Nick had a terrible thought: What if everyone else in the city got swallowed up?

He shivered and stuck his hands in his pockets. Yes, the coins were still there. And then all at once he missed Gran so much it hurt. He could almost hear her voice. “Land’s sake, that felt like the earth was no more than a rat a little dog got hold of and tried to shake to death. But now let’s get to work and right things.”

That’s what I should do,
Nick told himself.
Get to work and right things.

But it was hard to move, hard to trust that the shaking wouldn’t begin again and throw him down.

Nick heard a cry.

“Come on, Tim. Don’t fuss. Keep up now,” a woman scolded. A family of five or six emerged from a nearby doorway and began to rush toward Montgomery Street. The smallest boy trotted behind his mother, bawling loudly.

I’m not alone,
Nick realized with relief. Other people had made it, too. And Jackson Street was still here. There were bricks in the road and shattered glass from broken windows littering the sidewalk. But at least in this small corner of the city, things looked fixable. The solid brick buildings were standing.

He shook his head to try to clear it. He had to think. He had to find Shakespeare. Where would the big dog go?

Nick looked toward Montgomery Street. That was the way Mr. Pat liked to walk downtown. Yes, he should go there first. Shake might have gone the same way out of habit.

“Is that your father’s shop, son?” a police officer yelled to Nick as he ran past. “Better get those valuables out of sight. We’ll have looters out soon, mark my words.”

“Yes, sir.”

Well, something else had changed. He didn’t look like a runaway anymore. Nick tried the front door of the store. It was still locked. But that didn’t matter. The shining plate glass window was gone. Sweeping bits of glass away, Nick climbed through the empty frame.

“I’ll just grab the most valuable objects and hide them, then go find Shakespeare,” Nick said out loud. He didn’t know why. Maybe just to break the eerie silence in the deserted store. Nick looked closely at the clock on the wall. It had stopped at exactly 5:12. Early morning.

Most people had probably been home in bed. A few hours later, the streets would have been bustling with people, carts, automobiles, and horses. It was lucky the quake had struck so early. He didn’t like to think of horses rearing and panicking and running wild with fear in the crowded streets.

“Mr. Pat will be so upset,” Nick said to himself, looking at the rubble around him.

The neat shelves of magazines and paper journals had toppled, spilling everything across the floor. Every glass case and window was shattered.

“Mr. Pat’s inkwells!” Nick began to pick his way across the floor.

“Ouch!” Something sharp made him stop. Glass. Nick looked down at his stockinged feet. He’d forgotten all about his shoes. He’d been about to head to Market Street without them. He wasn’t thinking straight.

Walking more carefully, Nick found a paper sack Mr. Pat used to wrap up purchases. As quickly as he could, he filled it with the best pens and inkwells. Some of the inkwells had been smashed, but a few still looked perfect.

I should try to save more,
Nick thought, looking frantically at the broken glass, the upturned display cases, and the merchandise strewn across the floor. But he felt torn. He should go—now! He should be out looking for Shakespeare. What would Mr. Pat want him to do first?

Nick couldn’t fit anything else into the sack. At least he had grabbed the best.

Trying not to get cut on the broken glass, Nick made his way back and climbed out again, the bag banging against his leg. In the little room downstairs, Nick stashed the treasures behind the tattered green sofa. For now, he hoped, the bag would be safe.

He was almost up the stairs again when he looked down at his feet. His mind was still fuddled. Everything was taking so long. He was wasting so much time.

He’d forgotten his shoes again.

On Montgomery Street, Nick joined a flow of people. Everyone seemed to be heading toward Market Street.

Above the jagged line of the tall city buildings, the early morning sky seemed almost as blue as in Texas. That surprised Nick. He hadn’t been here long, but he’d already gotten used to the cool, foggy weather.

And so it seemed especially strange that today—of all days—should be sunny. The earthquake had been so violent and sudden. Nick wouldn’t have been surprised to find himself in the midst of a terrible storm, with thunder, lightning, and howling winds.

Instead, it was clear and pleasant, without a trace of the usual damp fingers of fog. Nick shook his head, like a dog shaking water off its coat. It didn’t help. His arms and legs ached, bruised from when he’d fallen. He felt fuzzy, off balance. He rubbed his elbow, which still hurt from when he’d banged it.

Nick put one foot in front of the other and concentrated on walking. He jumped at a shout behind him.

“Out of my way, boy,” growled a man dragging a trunk. “I’m heading for the Ferry Building. We’re gettin’ out of this city before anything else happens.”

The trunk scraped along the cobblestones, the man huffing with its weight. Just behind him, a small woman with a pinched white face was trying to run while she held a birdcage containing a fluttering yellow canary. “Wait for me, Amos. Poor Jerry here is twittering his head off.”

Nick watched men, women, and children stream out of buildings and fill the streets. Some people were weighed down with heavy bags and boxes. Others carried odd, surprising objects—bulky paintings in gilded frames, kittens in birdcages, teakettles and dolls.

Beside Nick walked a man still wearing only a nightshirt, his thin legs poking out like white sticks. His wife had on a long dressing gown, a fancy white hat with long feathers perched precariously on her head. The couple had probably raced out of their house as soon as the earthquake stopped, Nick realized. They’d just left their beds for the street and grabbed the first thing that came to hand.

Just like me,
Nick thought.
I forgot my own shoes.

Nick reached Market Street. Without knowing exactly why, he turned right, toward the Palace Hotel. When it came in sight, he breathed a sigh of relief. It looked magnificent. Nick could almost imagine the rich, fancy ladies and gentlemen inside.

When they’d walked past the day before, Mr. Pat had pointed to it and said, “It’s the grandest hotel in America, Nicholas. The pride of San Francisco.”

Almost without knowing it, Nick spoke out loud. “The Palace survived!”

A short, thick man with white hair turned to Nick. “Survived, did you say? Of course the Palace survived! Why, that building was designed to withstand earthquakes, son. The brick walls are two feet thick, and there’s three thousand tons of iron in just those seven stories.”

“How…how do you know?”

“Helped build it, now, didn’t I? And I was here in 1875 when it opened,” the man said, straightening his shoulders. He seemed to look past Nick. “October second, it was. Gleaming white marble, crystal chandeliers. I remember they had a grand banquet, but—”

“What about now? Will the Palace be all right?” Nick interrupted impatiently. The earthquake was over. The Palace looked fine. Nothing could be worse than what had just happened.

But before the man could answer, someone strode up to him and stopped short. “Bill, is that you?”

“Hullo, Mike!” The white-haired man next to Nick shook his friend’s hand and slapped him on the shoulder. “You’re safe. Glad to see you. Everything all right?”

The man called Mike sighed and shook his head, sending a spatter of plaster and dust into the air. “I just came from south of the Slot. Bad news there. The Valencia Street Hotel’s collapsed. Do you know it?”

“One of those cheap wooden boardinghouses, ain’t it? Built on filled land, like those others—Brunswick Hotel, Nevada House.” Bill shook his head. “Restin’ on nothin’ but swamp, those places are.”

“You’ve nailed it,” Mike said. Nick thought the man’s face looked as white as the plaster in his hair. “Those poor creatures in the Valencia Street Hotel didn’t have a chance. Four stories just collapsed into the swamp. Killed. I dunno how many. Maybe hundreds.”

“Some of them on the bottom probably drowned, I’ll wager,” said Bill in a low voice. He cleared his throat. “You headed to the ferry, Mike? I’ll go with you.”

Then he turned to Nick. “You should go home and tell your parents to leave now, kid.”

“But why? The earthquake’s over.” Nick’s head was spinning. He couldn’t believe what the man had said about the Valencia Street Hotel. He knew that building. After he’d met Tommy, he’d gone by there looking for work and a place to sleep. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Pat, he might have been sleeping there or in some alley south of the Slot.
I could have sunk into the swamp,
Nick thought.
It might have been me.

Mike pointed. “See over there?”

Nick followed the man’s finger. “That puff of smoke? I don’t understand.”

“Fire. Probably got started from a broken gas main or sparks from stoves,” said Bill.

“There are lots of fire stations,” said Nick. “And firemen with their fast horses and long hoses. I’ve seen them.”

Mike shrugged. “Maybe. Let’s hope you’re right, kid. Friend of mine told me that Dennis Sullivan, the fire chief, is hurt bad. Part of the California Hotel toppled off and tore through the station where he and his wife were sleeping.”

Bill cast another glance at the Palace Hotel. “Let’s hope someone else besides Sullivan has water and a plan. Otherwise, we’re in for the worst.”

The two men walked off before Nick had a chance to ask: What was the worst?

Woof. Woof!

Nick jumped at the sound. He turned. But it wasn’t Shakespeare. Instead, he saw a large black dog with a white spot on his face barking at a kitten on a man’s shoulder.

“People, dogs, cats, birds—everywhere,” Nick said to himself. “I’ll never find him in this crowd.”

Everyone seemed to be heading straight down Market Street toward the Ferry Building. The ferry. Nick snatched at the idea. Mr. Pat had gone in that direction last night. Shakespeare had probably gone with him in the past. Maybe that was where he’d made for.

Nick joined the wave of people. It felt strange to be walking in the middle of the wide avenue, usually so crowded with cable cars, wagons, and automobiles. Ahead stood the Ferry Building’s tall tower, boasting four giant clocks, one on each side.

Just a few days ago Nick seemed to be the only one without a place to be—the only person out of place. Now everyone had that same look he must have had—lost, uncertain, scared.

No wonder. This morning the solid earth had twisted, danced, and rolled. Nick felt a little dizzy. It was almost as if just thinking about the earthquake took him back inside it.

All at once the earth did begin to tremble. Nick came to a halt, planted his feet wide. He was shaking. Around him he could hear shouts and screams.

“Oh, no! Help me!”

“It’s coming again!”

An older woman near him with a deep, musical voice called out, “Don’t panic. It’s just a strong aftershock.”

Aftershock. It was like a bad dream that returned night after night.

“Are you all right, young man?”

Nick looked up into the woman’s lined face. “Is it dangerous?”

“It’s just the earth settling. I expect we’ll have many of them,” she said. Then she added, “But, dearie, make sure you keep away from walls and the sides of buildings. You don’t want loose bricks collapsing on top of you.”

As he drew close to the pier, Nick’s heart sank. This was impossible. He’d never find Shakespeare here. The pier was packed with people everywhere he turned.

The crowd surged forward suddenly, and a shout went up. “Here’s the ferry now!”