Emergence Read online

  Three beds to choose from. Not difficult decision, though: King-size unsuitable (truly, have walked on marble floors with more resilience). Queen-size fitted with ten-inch foam mattress (into which unwary sleeper might sink beyond hope of rescue). Twin bed, however, is Just Right.

  Good night, Posterity.

  Goodness…! Hard to know where to begin. So much to relate, but must keep tight rein on impulses lest record become even less coherent than usual. Strictly, therefore, by chronology:

  Arose well rested. Indulged in another long, hot shower. Prepared breakfast with usual hilarious difficulty; fending off, with effort, assistance intensively volunteered by jovially ravenous sibling (surely most trying aspect of relationship: Seems the earlier the hour, more unbearably cheerful becomes).

  Performed usual half-hour kata to settle breakfast, loosen up musculature.

  Thereafter went through house. Thoroughly. Negative-result pattern confirmed suspicions previously formed: Deliberate, preplanned exodus; whether prior to H. sapiens’ demise or immediately thereafter, unknown, immaterial. Lingering question still where.

  Finished house examination; time to extend sweep to offices, general work environs. Packed, adjourned to van. Dug address list from Tarzan File, placed on dash next to wheel. Cleaned, refilled Terry’s water, seed dishes -

  Of course bringing twin: Wouldn’t dream of leaving birdbrained innocent alone, unprotected. Besides, what if failed to return? Ever. Food, water soon run out. Consequences inevitable; details (how end arrives, how long takes) simply don’t bear thinking about! Yes, retarded brother’s constant companionship high in nuisance value (often downright maddening), but necessary to peace of mind.

  Found city map at nearby drugstore, oriented self, located destination; set forth in general direction of Hopkins campus; specifically, doctors’ office park adjacent to teaching hospital.

  Never got there.

  Everything happened at once, in slow motion: One moment was driving west (had overshot, going first to Harpers’ home) down medium-wide downtown arterial (four lanes, no parking; high-rise buildings jutting from sidewalk edges to form concrete canyon), slowing to turn north at next corner. Next moment, just as moved wheel to begin turn, caught glimpse (same instant heard engine’s bellow, tires’ shrieking) of gold-trimmed, shiny black blur already entering intersection from north, turning east: Full-race Trans Am (wide wheels, tires; unmuffled chrome headers; heaven knows what else) flailing into corner almost sideways, on radius which, requiring entire width of both streets, terminated somewhere between own vehicle’s headlights.

  No time for cleverness — instinctively stamped on brakes, threw hand up to brace Terry, stiffened other arm on steering wheel to brace me, gritted teeth, awaited outcome.

  Trans Am driver did react, somehow: Sensed, rather than saw, front wheels twitch outward; heard engine’s thunder falter, almost gasp, then redouble. Hurtling vehicle’s sideways approach around corner abruptly changed radius, momentarily flattening curve, missing van’s left front corner by merest fraction of flinch.

  Progress thereafter less clear: Observation limited to what could make out in mirrors.

  Trans Am apparently completed slide around corner (and own frail self) by slapping right rear wheel into curb, with front wheels still pointed sharply to right. Sliced immediately across sidewalk into storefront.

  Vehicle, building, both erupted in shower of fragments, dust, sudden plume of flame. Remnant of car ricocheted from impact cloud, spinning like dervish, shedding parts en route, to recross street. Smote that building tail first with horrendous thump, triggering yet another debris explosion, considerably more flame; from which emerged still spinning, appreciably smaller, still shedding parts, now gushing fire in earnest; recrossing street to crash again. And still again. And — oh, never mind.

  Would be nice to report own reaction at this point cool, efficient, intelligent. Can’t. Wasn’t. Intellect momentarily shut down completely. Forgot existence of large, fully charged CO2 extinguisher; forgot about Gel-Coat (flame-retardant, wet-chemical-soaked blanket with whose protection could have bathed in burning gasoline for five minutes without discomfort); forgot about Hurst gasoline-engine-hydraulic rescue equipment (capable of ripping open any door, shearing off roof posts, unpeeling vehicle crumpled like ball of foil to extract occupants); crowbar, sledge — all languishing in lockers in rear of van. Even forgot to set brake, shift transmission to neutral before taking action. (Didn’t matter; had killed engine again in heat of moment.)

  Only knew had finally found somebody — possibly very last other soul on Earth — and might be dying before own disbelieving eyes.

  Sprang from driver’s seat while accident still unwinding (seemed to take forever). Landed in dead run. Forced to hurdle several gasoline trails left burning as careening wreckage crossed, recrossed street between impacts.

  Overtook accident at Trans Am’s ultimate resting place, half-buried in display window some hundred yards beyond van. Arrived as building-material cascade tapered off; rubble piling high on roof, hood, trunk, littering nearby pavement.

  And since kamikaze slide’s final yards were backward, vehicle now resting on own gasoline track; flame pond spreading slowly about wreckage, storefront, as contents gurgled from ruptured fuel tank (rescue growing more complicated even as stood there, shielding face from heat [painful even at ten yards], squinting through inferno for glimpse of occupant).

  But not last-desperate-second, screaming-crisis emergency; merely grim. No flames yet visible in interior; reasonable to assume passenger compartment intact (underneath, at least; topsides a mess: Glass gone, along with bumpers, fenders; front windshield posts both torn loose; roof at angle never contemplated by styling engineers).

  Cooked occupant inevitable but not imminent; had time to secure from van equipment appropriate for crossing gasoline lake safely, forcing probably jammed door, extracting victim, retreating in good order.

  (Never mind exploding gas tanks — exist only in fevered imaginations of sensation-oriented, irresponsible Hollywood screenwriters: Fire Marshal Hathaway [Daddy’s friend, neighbor; lived just down street] said so. Claimed endless fueling of myth fostered needless widespread explosion-fear. Marshal Hathaway considered filmmakers’ behavior quasi-criminal — certainly reckless negligence: Public saw so many crashes-followed-by-explosions on TV, in films, believed it; and more peoples’ injuries compounded when unprofessionally dragged from wrecked cars — burning or not — by Good Samaritans fearing explosions following accidents than recordable. Liquid gasoline doesn’t explode; only gasoline vapor, correctly mixed with oxygen, explodes — and only if ignition delayed until precise moment ideal mixture achieved. Burning cars don’t explode.)

  None of which rambling bears on fact driver in fair way to roast if not gotten out promptly — gasoline fires hot!

  Therefore steeled heart, clamped down emotions, blocked from mind distracting awareness of real stakes at issue; concentrated dispassionately on tactical evaluation, selected tools, commenced organized rescue effort…

  Well, not exactly. (Mind still shut off.)

  Took short run, dived headfirst. Passage through flames too brief for more than hint of real heat. Felt only momentary, intolerable ovenlike sensation; had barely time to be startled as breath sucked from lungs in reaction. More startling was incredible roar as flames licked at face, hair, clothing: From distance imperceptible; at heart of conflagration sounded like freight train.

  Sailed through left front side window, fetching up in disarray on far side against door. Raised head to look around, discovered was gasping for breath: Already pretty warm inside.

  Untangled limbs, crawled to driver — sprawled under dash. Examined gently as commensurate with haste, thoroughly as possible under conditions; determined no condition apparent taking precedence over fire: Bleeding from various lacerations ranged from inconsequential to serious, but no fracture grossly evident — though spine distinctly separate question, not determinabl
e under present conditions. Would have to cross fingers.

  (Of course qualified to render opinion: Fair-haired only baby girl of best doctor in whole world! Thoroughly, properly instructed in advanced first aid; more knowledgeable in emergency medicine than paramedic.)

  Once assured rescue itself probably wouldn’t kill him (him? — HIM…!) turned attention to getting us out: Really getting hot in there.

  Especially floorboard, now that had moment to notice; not ideal storage environment for victim while figuring out next step. Braced self, hauled limp body up one end at a time, dumped on seat.

  Cast about interior for inspiration. At first found little cause for optimism. Then attention fixed on rear seat cushion: Ripped from moorings, lay skewed across interior, one end almost protruding from rear window. Recognized possible solution.

  Tried left door. Not surprised when refused to budge. (But disappointed.) Didn’t bother with right door; solidly wedged against wall in which vehicle embedded.

  Indulged in moment’s worry: Required little imagination to visualize consequences of attempting to push cushion through window, positioning to bridge pooled gasoline; climb through window dragging victim — amidst 20-foot-high flames…!

  Options (few at outset) evaporated as gasoline lake outside spread, temperature inside mounted. In fact, as practical matter, single avenue remained. But regarded with disquiet: somewhat risky.

  No — damned risky. For self (until now personal safety never at issue; could have aborted, exiting same way arrived, exposure limited to possible superficial scorching, crisping around edges) as well as for rescuee: If failed, both dog meat. (Well done.)

  Indeed might fail: Strength required far beyond that usually at command. Plus considerable endurance.

  Now. Strength available. But endurance most iffy.

  Surely everyone remembers stories of 92-pound housewife who, witnessing car fall off bumper jack onto husband, performs hundred-yard dash in three seconds flat, lifts car with one hand, extracting hubby with other. Or hiker, confronting grizzly without warning, who subsequently finds self standing 30 feet above ground; on lowest limb of tree too big to have encircled with arms, legs; with no memory of how got there. Etc.

  Less widely known: Many such stories true.

  Solution arcane but not supernatural. Straightforward biochemistry: Given protein machine (assuming well-toned musculature, ample lung capacity, sound heart, circulatory system in good repair), energy expenditure limited to rate at which fuel metabolized; muscle cells nourished; heat, waste removed. Reserve stored in muscle tissues negligible.

  Cells of which muscles composed contract not in unison but take turns; work in relays. System allows each cell a rest period to recharge during even most strenuous exercise; also means only tiny fraction actually participate at any moment.

  Now, if stimulus encountered which triggers substantial majority of cells in given muscle simultaneously, awesome feats ensue (along with real potential for popped ligaments, tendons, fractured bones — system designed for shiftwork operation).

  Own karate training, as with any advanced student, had covered Hysterical Strength, Unleashing Management Thereof; had gone, in fact, beyond routine analysis, theoretical discussion — into practical: Teacher included hypnosis in curriculum. Planted within psyche posthypnotic code to loose Beast Within at ultimate need.

  Present quandary seemed to fall within definition: Needed more strength than possessed; else would die. Clear enough, even allowing for Teacher’s dire warnings.

  For nothing magic about transaction. Simple arithmetic: X calories produced, available within Y length of time. Rigidly controlled by inverse proportion rule: Double consumption, halve duration.

  During tests had seen own strength increase tenfold. Briefly. Followed by crushing fatigue: in strict accordance with tanstaafl principle.

  But saw no alternative.

  Lay back on front seat, fanny close to door. Gripped steering wheel with one hand, seat edge with other. Drew back legs, knees on chest. Concentrated inward. Gathered forces; focused ki flow into, through legs. Transformed trigger word utterance into kiai, intensity of scream hurting throat, and…

  …KICKED!

  Astounding results: Door burst open, whistled through arc, crashed against hinge limits; welds failed, door flew down sidewalk, bouncing end-over-end.

  Instantly air vanished inside vehicle as heat flooded through door opening; searing lungs; dessicating eyes, nasal passages; scalding exposed skin. Smelled burning hair; never doubted was own.

  Time of essence now as never before: If couldn’t get victim, self, safely beyond flames before metabolic supercharge ran down, likely wouldn’t — unconsciousness only seconds away.

  Organizing actions to avoid waste motion suddenly acquired desperate importance. Snatched rear-seat cushion over into front; thrust through door opening (through which flames now licked, beginning to char headliner), positioning to bridge infernal moat. (Or almost bridge — just lacked length to span, with pond still spreading.)

  Seized driver, propped up into approximately seated position, slumped against seat back. Loosened jacket, pulled up over head, zipped shut. Shoved limp arms down into pants; tightened belt to hold in place.

  Shrugged own jacket upward, retracting head like turtle. Placed shoulder just below victim’s beltline; tugged, felt weight roll onto back as torso collapsed forward. Slid arm under thighs; lifted, jogging shoulder to center load in fireman’s carry (And marveled at own strength — while dreading impending consequences of reckless squandering: Sustained consumption rate surely four, five times norm; probably more.)

  Straightened experimentally: Bumped roof to gauge relationship between victim’s fanny, own shoulders — crouch needed to clear upper door frame.

  Fixed seat cushion’s location indelibly in mind’s eye. Took deep breath, held it; closed eyes, pinched jacket shut over face. And…

  …LEAPED!

  Time stopped as again felt blast-furnace ambience envelop whole body. Seemed to hang motionless midair; conscious this time of flames probing, digging, seeking access through flimsy coverings. Oppressive heat, pervasive roar blanketed all other sensations.

  Feet blindly seeking landing, but impact somehow unexpected, surprise. Cushion yielded underfoot as knees bent, absorbing extra weight; then airborne again, leaping for fire’s boundary — and heart stopped as cushion skidded away from legs’ thrust, robbing jump of power needed for distance, throwing balance off.

  Eyes snapped open, head jerked forward, trying to get clear of jacket; even at risk of optic burns, needed to see, reestablish orientation — mustn’t fall while still within holocaust!

  Dragged fabric clear of eyes just as cool air washed jacket, over clothing, into lungs; as landed, stumbling briefly, on flat, dry, cool pavement.

  Shrugged victim to ground; conducted hasty inspection for burning clothing — mine, his. Used own jacket to smother small blaze on victim’s left pants leg.

  Then attention riveted by rapidly forming pool of blood under leg: bright red — arterial stuff. Probably femoral, judging by amount. Must have been lying such that position created pressure block, preventing loss in car. Moving eliminated obstruction. If femoral, had as little as 20 seconds left — less whatever time had been bleeding in car since first moved.

  Heavy denim parted like cobweb before preternatural strength: Tore pants leg open from ankle to crotch; then ripped entirely free from garment. Turned victim over; confirmed suspicion immediately:

  Deep gash from medial upper thigh to anterior knee — spurt-ing.

  Twisted denim strip into rope; looped about thigh above wound. Looked around briefly, wistfully — no sticks within reach. Slid fingers under bandage, made hard fist; partially stood, stepped three fast turns around body, using own hand as stick, tightening tourniquet very nicely, thank you, but cutting off blood to fingertips in process.

  Seized collar with left hand, right still lodged in tourniquet; swung victim back up
over shoulder into fireman’s carry.

  Staggered then, beset by flash of vertigo; suddenly aware of warning twinges as muscles all over body threatened to cramp. Conscious also of perspiration abruptly streaming from body in rivers as autonomic system belatedly noticed calorie-consumption rate, tried to do something about mounting internal temperature. And breathing affected now, too: coming in deep, tortured gasps.

  But couldn’t complain; not unexpected. In fact, remarkable aspect to condition is why symptoms so long deferred — no idea how was still functioning at all. According to data, painfully garnered through previous supervised (and conservative) experiments, activity level sustained during past few minutes flatly impossible. Should have achieved coma long since through massive fatigue products build-up, with vital organs shutting down from systemic shock; death imminent, barring only most profound life support, treatment.

  However, seemed less than opportune moment to question blessing. Set off for van at dead run.

  Arrived still conscious but deteriorating: Heartbeat thundering inside skull; lungs afire; cramps attacking in earnest now; black patches flickering across vision; clothing dripping, saturated with sweat.

  Terry greeted with “Hello, baby; what’cha doo-in’?”; but couldn’t spare breath, time to respond.

  Threw open side doors, slung victim into own bunk. Then found couldn’t reach tool locker door from bedside. Frantic visual search located crowbar on floor near door (had used earlier to enter drugstore). Made long leg, snagged with foot. Dragged within reach of left hand; substituted for right in tourniquet — with relief.

  Stumbled to refrigerator, shaking life back into fingers. Rummaged through stored food; found quart of Gatorade, plastic container of yesterday’s chicken soup. Gulped about half Dr. Cade’s elixir in single swallow; put away equal portion of Yiddish cure-all.

  Worried somewhat over possible consequences: Food, drink not easy travelers in stomach during, right after sustained violent exercise. Especially cold. But knew needed something immediately to start replenishment after huge energy drain.