Oceans Rising Trilogy Part I: Eli

Part I: Eli

By Tom Pollock and Jack Seybold.

Published by Tom Pollock and Jack Seybold at Smashwords

Copyright © 2003 by Tom E. Pollock III and Jack Seybold

All haiku and poems copyright © 2003 Jack Seybold

Art on Cover copyright © 2004 Tim Holmes

Other ebooks by Tom Pollock and Jack Seybold:

Oceans Rising Trilogy Part II — Mariah and Darcy

Oceans Rising Trilogy Part III — Maxwell Acres

Oceans Rising Trilogy (Includes All Three Parts)

This Trilogy was originally published by Tom Pollock and Jack Seybold as The Rising — Journeys in the Wake of Global Warming at AuthorHouse, 2004, and is available in print as a paperback at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the authors’ work.

This ebook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

To our families.

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PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS

(Ages at opening of the story)

Eli Barnes, 39 — San Quentin Inmate

Dr. Charles Royer, 57 — Retired Air Force Surgeon

Rose Royer, 55 — Charles’ Wife, Air Force Nurse

Kim Royer, 32 — Daughter of Charles and Rose, Congressional Aide

Dr. Peter Addison, 57 — Professor of Earth Sciences (his wife, Celia, deceased, was

Charles Royer’s twin sister)

Catherine Addison, 19 — Daughter of Peter and Celia, College Gymnast

Jason Lowery, 20 — Catherine’s Boyfriend

Dupree Ransom — San Quentin Inmate

Erik Perez — San Quentin Inmate

James Salas — San Quentin Volunteer (whose identity Eli uses after an escape)

Darcy Wallace Malone, 30 — San Francisco Homemaker, Mortuary Pilot

Tierney Malone, 4 — Daughter of Darcy and Reinhold

Finn Malone, 11 months — Son of Darcy and Reinhold

Mariah Wallace, 55 — Mom to Darcy, Grandmother (Babushka) to Tierney/Finn

Paisley Overcroft, 39 — Modoc County Herb Grower

Ray Overcroft, 40 — Paisley’s Husband, Modoc County Farmer

Maurice Beckwith, 65 — Modoc County Retiree

Chet Ragland, 55 — Modoc County Feed Store Owner

Robb Maxwell, Deceased — Prior Owner of Modoc County Homestead

CHAPTER 1

Friday, January 6

Eli Barnes was a saint or a fool, and Dupree Ransom needed him. San Quentin’s erstwhile drug kingpin was up to something disquieting when he slipped his ice cream cup onto Eli’s tray in the chow hall. I don’t like this kind, man. You can have it. Eli had no doubt of Ransom’s disdain, had seen him menace and abuse unfortunate loners—he had left the kid in West Block with a black eye and fractured elbow, for little more, apparently, than satisfaction of his inflated ego. Eli was not a vulnerable loner, recognizing a measure of security in the companionship of his cellmate, Moses Porter, and brothers in the Retreat Movement. But safety is a fragile commodity in prison.

Ransom feared no one, owed no one in San Quentin. The Chicano and White gangs gave him a wide berth. Even the guards gave him slack. Scuttlebutt claimed he had leverage on several who had smuggled contraband and shared the profit. Ransom should have been a target, but no challenger stepped forward.

Ransom’s cellmate, Erik Perez, was equal physically, which made some decide the guards had set up a gladiatorial contest, but Perez deferred enough to keep a concord between them. His arms were covered to the wrists with tattoos, and one on his neck announced his name: Erik. He was four inches taller than his cellie, but none of his stature was mental. Although both men were of mixed race, Perez was considerably lighter, so his tattoos showed well. Ransom had no tattoos—he wanted his sculpted physique unmarred by further decoration.

Ransom turned heads when he appeared, looking humble and sincere with bowed head, at chapel services two weeks in a row. He shook hands with those around him, including Eli Barnes, during the greeting of peace. He had stepped up at altar call to receive a blessing. He played the humble and devout seeker—even made the Retreat, made a moving speech at the end of it declaring his discovery of a new life. Still, any gift or favor from Dupree Ransom was unsettling.

It was too blatant—not that Ransom had ever been subtle. Eli recalled Ransom’s first day on the main line four years ago. He flowed into the cell block like a panther, pulling off his shirt, his muscles bulging as if they had been layered on and shaped with a trowel. He searched for a return glance with a satisfied smile that announced he was boss. When a guard told him to put his shirt on, he complied, taking exacting care in fastening the buttons. He parted his knees and dropped his pants to tuck in his shirttail, then buttoned them with measured concentration.

It was vanilla. Two rare, sweet cold ounces that highlighted the day for some of the somber men in the dank prison. Eli watched Ransom recede to a distant table, then stared at the lidded paper cup.

Man, that’s weird, said Moses Porter. You almost don’t want to eat it, wondering what’s the payback.

Eli stole a glance at Ransom and Perez in boisterous conversation half the hall away. Although they drew a crowd in the yard by performing feats of strength, like Ransom’s handstand on Perez’ doubled fists, clasped in front of him waist high, except for maintaining their physiques and polished egos, their demeanor was that of typical convicts resigned to live out long sentences. They had even begun to attend Bible study classes on Tuesday nights.

It was all for show, Eli decided. Moses concurred. And the ice cream drop had been public. Under the circumstances it placed a burden on Eli. He did not relish being Ransom’s pal, with some undefined obligation. He knew he had a reputation as a good con, and he was not at all sure he wanted to share it with Dupree Ransom.

A school of Antarctic krill drifts near the dark zone. No sunlight penetrates the thousand-foot thick Ross Ice Shelf, but the thin adjacent sea ice allows enough light to support the tiny, swimming plankton. On this day the intermittent thunder-snaps cracking from the ice shelf above increase to a frequency not felt before. Unequipped by evolution to tolerate such vibrations, the half-mile long school of euphausia superba orients in unison and flows, leaderless, like a river, north toward the Falklands.

CHAPTER 2

Saturday, January 14

Eli Barnes sat on the edge of a high bed in San Quentin’s AIDS ward in a green room fading to gray. The heavy door had a window he could span with the fingers of one hand outstretched. Yeah, Johnny, he said, this is prime real estate. How long do you suppose the Governor and developers will let this sorry old place go on being used as a lockup? What he was saying was trivial, he realized. To speak, however, was essential.

The bed with its burden of a gaunt body draped with clean white sheets and gray blanket took up most of the room. Eli could kick out and touch the wall from where he sat. How ridiculous to equip this Spartan cell with a lock or even a heavy door. Of the six thousand convicts in San Quentin, Johnny Diaz was least likely to escape.

Johnny’s sad sunken eyes rolled half-heartedly. He took a quick breath, like a hiccup, and stared at the bowl in Eli’s hands. Eli dipped a plastic spoon into the oatmeal and scraped the underside of it on the bowl’s edge, then arced it over to Johnny’s waiting mouth. He waited to see if the grizzled old convict would swallow or cough.

Eli could believe the talk about San Quentin being sold. The State of California was short on money after the energy scandals of 2002 and the dot-com collapse, the country’s expensive wars of preemption and the war on terrorism—and this dilapidated old structure would take millions to upgrade. It would be easier to build a new prison with a new Death Row out in the boonies somewhere, where all the slammers in the prison boom at the end of the Twentieth Century were built. A Republican Assemblyman had already proposed a bill to do just that.

You know how beautiful it is out there. He nodded toward the wall as if he and Johnny could see the sunset glow beyond San Francisco Bay and the amber and green mass of Mount Tamalpais. When the economy picks up, they’re gonna picture stacks of condos right here. Among the ironies of life in San Quentin was the fact that the AIDS unit exercise yard faced, through several layers of cyclone fence and barbed wire, one of the best scenic views in the Bay Area, with Mount Tamalpais thrusting its bulk into the Pacific sky across an expanse of the North Bay. Standing in that exercise yard earlier in the afternoon, Eli had watched a beam of bright sunlight pierce between heavy clouds, as if God were reaching down with long golden fingers to enjoy the water that lapped the stubby peninsula on which the prison sat. He waved at passengers on the boats skimming into the nearby Larkspur Ferry dock. Taxpayers. Solid citizens whose heads were filled with family, picket fenced yards with golden retrievers, weekend golf, salmon and chardonnay. Eli tried to put it into a haiku poem:

Blessed are you O men

sailing on golden waters

loved ones on the shore

Johnny Diaz exhaled a long hiss through his nose. D’ya ever find out what Dupree Ransom wanted? he croaked.

No, answered Eli. I haven’t seen him around since last week.

Stay away from him. Johnny’s voice was hoarse yet firm. He inhaled as if he would continue. Ransom can’t do you any good. Another sucking in of air. But he can bring you down.

I know, Johnny.

Johnny’s bony hand trembled over to nudge Eli’s arm. Stay out of his way. He closed his eyes and sank into his pillow.

Eli waited until Johnny opened his eyes, then continued to spoon porridge, occasionally lift the blotchy head for a sip of water from a plastic cup, until Johnny closed his eyes and relaxed the muscles of his brow. It would not be much longer until Johnny’s sentence was fulfilled, thought Eli, and he would be paroled to a much more beautiful place, with no wall between him and the gleaming shore, with maybe even salmon and chardonnay.

For the third year running, on the islands north of the frozen continent, mid-summer populations of albatross and snow petrels, and even the cantankerous scua, soar. Only the aged ones, whose eyesight is dim, continue to fly over the ice shelves. Only they can tolerate the dazzling sunlight reflecting off the myriad ponds and water slicks once again multiplying exponentially on the skin of the shelves. The others, young and strong, insurers of the species, sense when they must nest to the north or die of disorientation.

A snow cave is not like a motel room, Kim. Catherine Addison’s pronouncement was not one Kim Royer could argue with. Kim, Senior Aide to Congressman Thad Parker, could tell her young cousin about practical issues of modern life, about law and government, about finance and economy, about aikido and self-defense, even about relationships and men. But what Kim knew about survival in Nature would fit in a file folder thinner than the menu she was now ignoring. They were having lunch in advance of tonight’s meet between Catherine’s U.C. Davis gymnastics team and Sacramento State.

It seems to me that it’s very much like a motel room. It’s small and private and away from your father, which is as similar as it needs to be.

Oh, that’s not it at all! Catherine sat erect. She had a gymnast’s body and earnest, alert eyes. Jason says it’s an adventure. It’s more a test of your hardiness. That’s what he says. It wouldn’t be a… She couldn’t think of the word. I told Jason Dad wouldn’t approve of us going off together to sleep in a cave, even if we’d be bundled in our wool clothes and sleeping bags. Jason says snow camping is not very romantic. It’s a lot of work and you’re just into survival. You have two feet of packed snow just a few feet above you, and it’s hard to move around once you get inside. All you want to do is get comfortable enough to sleep.

Why do you want to do something so uncomfortable? asked Kim.

It’s an adventure. What if you had to survive an airplane wreck? You have to be tough and have grit. You get a confidence in yourself and your ability to use your wits and your nerve. Take away your luxuries, and what do you have? Jason says you find out you have lots of good stuff. It’s good to discover that.

How does Jason know so much about it?

Kim, he’s a world class skier. He was on the Olympic team in Nordic Combined. That’s where you ski and shoot a rifle. Well, he was until he injured his knee playing soccer. Now he goes on ski treks with friends where they camp out. He told me snow camping saved his life.

Kim allowed her amusement at Catherine’s warmth toward Jason to show in a faint smile. How did that happen?

Jason volunteers with the Forest Service and the Sheriff’s Department to go on search-and-rescue missions, looking for lost campers. Last winter he was deputized to hunt for a bank robber who had escaped in the Sierra. He got separated from the team in a snow storm and had to make a snow cave. He had to stay inside for a day and a half. Luckily he had some trail mix and water. Next day they found the robber nearly frozen to death, but Jason skied back to camp none the worse for wear.

So you think your dad would give his blessing for you and Jason to hunker down in an igloo for a day and a half?

No, that sound’s awful. But I told Jason I’m willing to try it. I said I’d ask if we can use your family’s cabin as a base, instead of ours. You could be there to chaperone the cabin, or your mom and dad. As for the snow camping, it’s intimate, but it’s claustrophobic. It’s not like going to a motel.

The waiter took their order. Kim folded her arms on the table and looked directly at Catherine. Intimate but claustrophobic. What an interesting combination of words. Inviting and yet forbidding.

What are you saying, Kim? Catherine admired her cousin, a role model to brag about to classmates. Kim’s father, Charles Royer, was the twin brother of Catherine’s mother, who had died.

Men are like snow caves, aren’t they? You want them to be close and warm, but not suffocating.

Jason has never been demanding or possessive, said Catherine.

Kim’s smile broadened. She understood Catherine’s desires and her fears, her fierce independence and her devotion to a doting father who saw in her the vivid shadow of her mother. The day Celia Addison died, Kim had held Catherine in a comforting embrace—Catherine was still in junior high and Kim was pursuing a career in business. Kim had sensed Celia’s spirit passing into Catherine, who first wept, then relaxed under Kim’s soothing, then sighed and helped prepare her mother’s body. Catherine herself handed her mother’s wedding ring to her father. There was no confidence Catherine would not entrust to her worldly-wise cousin.

Is Morgan Clark like that?

Kim blinked. How had Morgan Clark entered the scene? What? she squinted.

Is he warm, or suffocating?

What do you know about Morgan Clark? Kim asked, temporizing.

The waiter delivered their order, bowed, said Enjoy, and retreated.

Mom’s been spreading news about me, I see, said Kim. She spread her napkin and gathered her thoughts, deciding not to evade Catherine. I’ve been out with him three or four times, and I’d say if given the chance he’s a suffocator. She saw that Catherine was disappointed.

Yes, it’s too bad. There are a lot of positives in him. But he is a man who gets what he wants, with an unerring sense of making the best of his opportunities. Last weekend he flew us in a private jet to San Diego for dinner. It was a beautiful, extravagant, exhilarating evening, which I don’t suppose I’ll ever have again.

You mean the suffocating thing?

Exactly. I think what he likes about me is the challenge. I was supposed to be off balance. We went out for dinner again on Tuesday, here in town, and he started getting clumsy and demanding. I’m afraid I’m going to be busy when he calls.

The conversation lapsed into quiet eating for a minute. Kim felt she had discharged her role model function, and she had not exaggerated. There were too many red flags attached to Morgan.

What is Jason like?

Oh, Kim, he’s always polite and well-mannered. His family are country-club kind of people back East, in Maryland, kind of conservative. In fact, one of the things I like about him is that, even though he leans right politically, he respects other opinions. He says Thad Parker’s a straight shooter, though he would never vote for him. We get into arguments all the time, but he’s not doctrinaire about it. Well, he can get condescending sometimes, but I challenge him, and he makes me think too. I mean, he recognizes my independence and lets me be who I am.

I’m looking forward to meeting him. But I think it’s going to be at your cabin in McCloud. The older generation have their hearts set on it, I’m afraid.

What about you? Wouldn’t you rather go to your family’s place in Modoc County?

Well, said Kim, it’s at least an hour or two farther. I do have fond memories of being there when I was a young girl. My brother and I could take our dog Rusty out into the forest and feel like we were all alone. And there was an old man there, Mr. Maxwell, who lived up the road. He had all kinds of gadgets at his place, and he let Tom and me play there, and help him with his projects. It was even more fun than spending summers on my grandparents’ farm in Iowa.

What happened to Mr. Maxwell?

He died a few years ago, sort of mysteriously. It’s too bad you never met him. He was a very nice man.

CHAPTER 3

Sunday, January 15

The National Times

Scientists and Media Await Ice Collapse in Antarctica

By Quincy Ulrich, Science Reporter

Scientists in Antarctica are expecting the imminent collapse of two enormous zones of ice called the Ross Ice Shelf and the Ronne Ice Shelf. Each one is the size of France—as big as New England, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania and Ohio combined. Some think the aftermath could threaten civilization as we know it.

The public won’t miss out this time. In March 2002, no one saw the historic disintegration of the Larsen B Ice Shelf the size