Lucifer's Hammer - Larry Niven [116]
"Dead," Tim said.
"Throw him out," Eileen said.
"But—"
"We aren't going to eat him. We won't be that hungry."
It shocked Tim, so much that he thrust the baby out the window and let go. "I—it felt like I was letting some of my life drop onto that pavement," he said.
"Do you think I like it?" Eileen's voice was pinched. Tim looked at her in alarm; there were tears streaming down her cheeks. "That woman thinks she saved her child. At least she thinks that. It's all we could have done for her."
"Yes," Tim said gently.
"If … When. When we've got to high ground, when we know what's happening, we can start thinking civilization again," Eileen said. "Until then, we survive."
"If we can."
"We will." She drove on, grimly. The rain was coming down so hard that she couldn't see, despite the windshield wipers speeding away, smearing grime and salt water across the windshield.
The Golden State Freeway had cracked. The underpass was blocked with wreckage. A tangle of cars and a large gasoline tank truck lay in the midst of a spreading pool of fire.
"Jesus," Tim said. "That's … shouldn't we stop?"
"What for?" Eileen turned left and drove parallel to the freeway. "Anyone who's going to survive that has got out already."
They were driving through a residential area. The houses had mostly survived intact. They both felt relief; for a few moments there was no one hurt, broken or dying. They found another underpass, and Eileen drove toward it.
The way had been blocked by a traffic barrier. Someone had torn down the barrier. Eileen drove through it. As she did, another car came out of the rain ahead. It dashed past, horn screaming.
"Why would anyone be going into the valley?" Tim demanded.
"Wives. Sweethearts. Children," Eileen said. They were climbing now. When the way was blocked by twisted remains of buildings and cars, Eileen turned left, bearing north and east always. They passed the ruins of a hospital. Police in blue, nurses in rain-soaked white poked at the wreckage. One of the policemen stopped and looked at them. Tim leaned out the window and screamed at him. "Get to high ground! Flood! Tidal wave! High ground!"
The policeman waved, then turned back to the wreckage of the hospital.
Tim stared moodily at the swirling smears on the windshield. He blinked back tears of his own.
Eileen had a moment to glance at him. Her hand touched his before returning to the wheel. "We couldn't have helped. They've got cars, and enough people … "
"I guess." He wondered if he meant it. The nightmare ride went on, as the car climbed toward the Verdugo Hills, past wrecked stucco houses, a fallen school, burning houses and intact houses. Whenever they saw anyone, Tim screamed warning. It made him feel a little better for not stopping.
He glanced at his watch. Incredibly, less than forty minutes had passed since he'd seen the bright flash. He muttered it: "Forty minutes. H plus forty minutes, and counting."
The wave rushes outward from the center of the Gulf of Mexico, moving at 760 miles an hour. When it reaches the shallows along the coast of Texas and Louisiana, the foot of the wave stumbles. More and more water rushes up behind, piling higher and higher until a towering monster half a kilometer high falls forward and flows up onto the land.
Galveston and Texas City vanish under the pounding waves. The water that flows westward through the swamps into El Lago; further west into Houston itself, is now filled with debris. The wave strikes all along the arc from Brownsville, Texas, to Pensacola, Florida, seeking lowlands, rivers, any path inland and away from the burning hell at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico.
The waters pile high along the Florida west coast; then they break across, carrying with them the sandy soil. They leave behind channels scoured clean, a myriad of passages from the Gulf to the Atlantic Ocean. The Gulf Stream will be cooler and much smaller for centuries to come.
The waters crossing Florida are capricious. Here a reflected wave joins the main body of rushing water to build