Earthquake in the Early Morning - Mary Pope Osborne [7]
Firestorm, Jack thought. The word sounded terrible.
Just as he put the book away, a huge blast of dynamite shook the ground.
Dust and dirt flew everywhere, even down the alley.
Jack clutched their sign with one hand. He covered his eyes with the other. Annie did the same.
Another huge blast rocked the ground.
Jack tasted grit in his mouth. He looked at Annie. She was caked with dust from head to toe. He looked down at himself. He was just as dirty as she was.
“Hey, would you look at those two!” someone said. “Now, that’s a story!”
Jack looked up. Betty, the newspaper reporter, and Fred, the photographer, were standing in front of them.
Even though they were also covered with dirt, Fred was setting up his camera. And Betty was taking notes in her notebook.
“Hold up your sign, sonny,” said Betty.
Too stunned to say anything, Jack held up the sign with the poem about hope.
Fred took a picture.
Another dynamite blast shook the ground.
“Come with us! We’re headed for the park!” said Betty.
“We can’t. We’re on our way home, to our parents,” said Annie.
“Well, get going! And be careful!” said Betty. “Let’s beat it, Fred!”
The photographer grabbed his camera equipment, and the two of them rushed off.
“I don’t think Betty and Fred recognized us,” said Annie.
“I don’t recognize us,” said Jack.
Another blast shook the ground.
“Come on,” said Annie. “Let’s beat it!”
Jack and Annie jumped up. Jack put their sign in his bag. Then they started back down the hill.
Jack and Annie ran over the cobblestones. Dynamite blasts echoed behind them.
They headed back down the hill. Flames shot across the roofs, traveling from one house to another.
“We’re heading right into the firestorm!” Jack shouted over the noise.
“We have to keep going,” Annie shouted back, “before the tree house catches fire!”
At the bottom of the hill, thick smoke was rolling through the street. It made Jack’s eyes burn.
“Where’s the tree house?” he shouted.
“Here!” said Annie.
Jack followed her voice.
She was holding on to the rope ladder.
“It’s still here!” Jack said with relief.
“Of course. The tree house wouldn’t leave without us,” said Annie. “Don’t you—”
“Go! Go!” said Jack.
Annie started up the rope ladder. Jack followed. They climbed into the tree house and looked out the window.
All around, buildings were going up in flames. Black smoke seemed to be smothering the city.
Jack could scarcely breathe. His throat burned. His eyes were stinging.
Annie grabbed their Pennsylvania book. She opened it to the picture of Frog Creek and pointed.
“I wish we could go there,” she said. “Good luck, San Francisco!”
“Good-bye, San Francisco!” said Jack.
The wind started to blow.
The tree house started to spin.
It spun faster and faster.
Then everything was still.
Absolutely still.
The songs of early-morning birds filled the woods.
Jack opened his eyes and sighed.
They were back in Frog Creek. He could breathe again. His eyes didn’t sting anymore. He was wearing his own clothes, even his sneakers.
“I wonder what happened to everyone?” Annie asked anxiously. “Andrew, Peter, and their aunt, and Betty and Fred, and all the other people.”
Jack pulled out their research book. He turned to the last chapter. He read aloud:
After the earthquake fires were put out, people from all over the world sent help to San Francisco. The brave citizens of the city never gave up hope. Many even wore badges that said, “Let’s rebuild at once.” In less than ten years, San Francisco was once again one of the loveliest cities in the United States.
“Oh, good,” breathed Annie. “Hey, do you have our sign?”
Jack reached again into his pack. He pulled out the sign from Peter and Andrew.
He placed it on the floor, next to the list from the Civil War, the letter from the Revolutionary War, and the slate from the pioneer schoolhouse.
“We have all four writings now,” he said.
“So what happens next?” said Annie.
Suddenly, there was