The Crest

The morning broke with a silvery light where the sun would rise, the sky cloudless and even more inexplicable, smokeless. The pod members ate breakfast and assembled for their morning briefing. At 5:30 am they already felt the change, the air hot and stuffy.

It’s going to be a long day. Keegan thought.

He’d overdressed as usual and was already shedding layers at the briefing.

Staff Sergeant Wild Bill Johnson spoke to the group, “Attack threat today is light. A recent development though, some of you may have heard that we have an enemy in our midst, stalking us, leaving one dead so far. He goes by the nom de guerre of FORC Stalker. Stay fucking alert. We believe he’s living in the enclave somewhere.”

Wild Bill changed topics. “As for today, heat is your enemy, stay cool, ladies and the rest of you pantywaists.” Wild Bill loved mocking the male defenders on the Crest, he thought the men were sub-par specimens of masculinity and valor,and that was an understatement.

“We are in a high-pressure bubble and that means no breeze, high humidity and generally an all-around fucking miserable day for you folks up there.”

“God, is this guy always such a downer?” Margot whispered to Keegan.

“Yup. He’s unbelievable somedays,” Keegan whispered back.

Wild Bill told the group. “Seriously, remember the wet bulb warnings and it’ll be worse on the battlement. Take plenty of water.”

“Wet bulb?” Keegan asked his partner.

“Something that measures temperature and humidity together. Don’t ask me to explain it to you, it’s too early.”

At 6:00 am, the pod hiked up to the Crest and began their day. Keegan and Margot gazed to the east, the sky changing to a marigold hue. Across the expanse of burnt forest, there was solitude.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Margot noted.

“Stunning.”

“Quiet too.”

“No wind, no birds, nothing. God, I’m sweltering already. The Sergeant talks about the wet bulb like it’s the dark angel,” Keegan said.

“It’s more like a weather incubus. Your body can’t cool down, and then poof, you’re dead.” Margot, as usual, was more informed than her partner.

“Come on, we’ve experienced 95 degrees before.”

“In low humidity dude, get it straight.”

The pair shed their jackets and long shirts and walked out to their ascribed patrols.

Down in FORC, Danielle noticed the wilting flowers outside of her barracks room.

Somebody needs to water those things. She reflected as she walked to the FORC headquarters.

A red sun broke the eastern skyline and radiated like the double flash of a nuclear detonation, which unquestionably, the sun was. With every second, the sun released billions of megatons of energy and today, all that energy seemed directed toward northwest Oregon.

By 7:00 am, the high-pressure air descended and as it sank, it compressed near the ground, suppressing the development of clouds and heating up the landscape. Soon after, the chalky light from the sunrise created the first shadows across the various FORC lab buildings.

Danielle walked into the headquarters.

“What temps have you got for me, Fernando?”

“Fucking dangerous out there. Wet bulb is at 93 F. and rising. That’s wet-bulb mind you, death zone time approaching fast. We should be at 95 F in a few hours.”

“What? You’re kidding me.”

“Nope, a heat dome for sure. This high-pressure system has blocked cloud formation and any upward motion in the atmosphere. There are going to be human casualties, Danielle. You’d better make sure the nursery workers are prepared for the heat.”

“Okay, but the human body cannot cool off when wet bulb hits 95 F, right?”

“Yep, probably lower than that for some.”

“And the seedlings?”

“Not good either. The sprinkler system is running full on. We need to get shade cloth and the blower fans out on the periphery too. Fans won’t do much for the whole 25,000 acres but it’s better than nothing. And cover the greenhouses, this heat dome is going to be a bitch. I expect many of the trees will lose their leaves and needles, and they may not recover.”

By 8:00 am, the wet bulb read 95 F. The sterling sunlight stung the eyes, and breathing became labored. Already Danielle could hear the traffic on her hand-held radio; there were calls for help for the elderly.

Back on the Crest, the concrete became blistering. “There is no sound,” Margot said, her voice scratchy. She took a drink of water from her liter bottle. She stripped down to her pants and t-shirt and poured water over her body.

“To hell with the patrol, Sergeant,” she said to herself. Her M-4 burned in the sun; she took that off too.

Now, the heat waves moved along the Crest like a specter. Margot thought she saw something moving out beyond the wall, but she held little interest in finding out what it was. The concrete battlement began to crack as it heated.

By 9:00 am, the wet bulb hit 96 F and in Old Portland City, its asphalt streets and steel buildings began to creak under the sun’s beams. The city became a massive heat basin. On Hawthorne Boulevard, an old woman named Maggie felt like she was in a sauna, she gasped. This is how it ends? Heat stroke. She thought to herself.

The eighty-two-year-old hippie lived on the second floor of a run-down bar called the Void. She lived in that apartment with her invalid husband. She knew what she had to do.

“Get up, George, we have to move downstairs.”

Her sickly husband just stared at her, gasping, eyes wide-open, on the verge of cardiac arrest. She struggled to get the man out of bed. She put her arm under his shoulders, and even though disease wasted his body, he was almost dead weight. He could barely help her navigate the steps down to the dusty tavern.

She stopped halfway, feeling faint. “God damn it, George, you have to help me here.”

The old man tried the best he could. When she got to the bottom, she laid him down on the waxed wooden floor, then she turned on the generator she used for her bar business. She’d hoarded gas for emergencies, this was one. She stopped, paused, took deep breaths, she poured water over her head. She plugged in the window air conditioner and turned it on. God almighty, fucking relief.

She put blankets down by the air conditioner and dragged the old man over. She helped him drink water, she took off most of his clothes and sprinkled water over his body.

There, nearly insentient herself, she waited, trying to catch her breath. Outside, the sound of generators rumbled out into the streets and the lucky few turned on their air conditioners.

Maggie perceived moans coming from the street. She looked outside the window and saw a throng of people sitting under the eaves on the hot sidewalk. God, what do I do now? What do I do? Her mind struggled, guilt, cognitive dissonance on display.

She looked at George, she looked out the window again. “God damnit,” she screamed.

She hobbled to the front of the bar and opened the door; the heat blast jolted her being. She corralled the ten homeless tenants and pushed them inside.

“Sit against the wall and don’t move,” she ordered.

They obeyed the old woman; they sat stunned, listless.

Outside, people lay in the entryways, alcoves, pavilions, and rotundas. Some found the shade of huge Douglas Fir trees while others escaped to basements of car parks and dark cellars of homes. Those who could make it, moved to the massive Forest Park in the Tualatin Mountains west of downtown. Elsewhere, hordes stood in the shriveled channel of the Willamette River.

In different places around the city, moaning could be heard from the elderly trapped in buildings. They hung white flags from their windows, distress signals. Some gangs helped the residents find shade and water, acts of rapport with the community, divine deliverance. These makeshift emergency services were too little and too late, but a relief nonetheless. A few stores sold food and drinks for nominal prices.

Maggie passed out all the water and soft drinks from her bar. They drank, thankful. Elsewhere, bodies piled up in the streets, mostly elderly but infants too. Some died in their tracks, others carried their dead outside.

Back on the Crest, the black basalt rock and concrete battlement reached an observed, non-wet bulb 125 degrees F. The 18-year-old defenders broke ranks and headed down to the barracks parade grounds and shady sports fields.

Back at FORC, Fernando grew worried. “We’re at 97 F wet bulb. Our readings show that all soil moisture is gone, obliterated in just a few hours.”

“How can that be, Fernando; we’ve been watering the nursery.”

“It doesn’t take long in this heat.”

A report came over the radio from a worker named Eddie. “Boss man, the pumps from the Bull Run reservoir can no longer draft water, they’re sucking air now.”

Just then the sprinkler system to the nursery stopped.”

“God damn it, Fernando, we have to get water to the seedlings,” Danielle screamed.

Fernando spoke emphatically into the radio, “Eddie, can you add an additional section of hose to the pumps and extend it to the water?”

“Okay, how bad do you want this, boss man? Getting difficult over here.”

“Do the best you can, Eddie, this is for the nursery. You know the story; we’re just trying to keep those seedlings alive.”

“Okay, boss man but it’s going to suck a lot of water out of the reservoir and my guys are getting pretty weak.”

Danielle spoke into the radio, “Eddie, I get you. I don’t care how much water we use; we must keep those seedlings alive. Do what you can to take care of your crew. I’ll get replacements out there for you soon.”

By 1:00 pm the temperature reached 118 degrees F with a wet bulb of 100 F and by 4:00 pm it hit 121 F with a corresponding wet bulb of 102 F. All movement stopped.

The night passed silently, deadly, humans stalked by heat waves. The cries for help subsided. By early morning the heat dome broke and cool air rushed in. The temperature returned to normal — that is, the new Shift normal.

That morning an exhausted Maggie walked outside of the Void to get some fresh air. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and gasped. She grew weak at the knees. Hundreds of people lay dead along Hawthorne Boulevard.