NORTHERN CALIFORNIA COAST
APRIL 18, 1906. 5:13 P.M.
I lay on the floor of Adam Rolf’s mansion, trying to shield Ting Leo, while the end of the world advanced toward us with astonishing speed.
As Professor Jeremy Darling had long speculated, somewhere on the ocean floor west of the Golden Gate the jagged edges of the opposing Pacific and North American plates crumbled, like teeth breaking on two enormous sets of opposing gears.
The San Andreas Fault slipped by twenty feet.
A rip in the ocean floor opened and shut with such force it spit a plume of water toward the surface more than two miles above. The watery blast slammed the hull of the wooden fishing yawl Old Manassas, lifting it clear out of the water. Four thousand pounds of salmon and a sleeping crew of five floated in air, and then crashed to the sodden deck. They bobbed frantically as the sea parted and a mountain of water rained down on them, threatening to sink the helpless boat.
The fissure sped across the ocean floor, shooting a serpentine tail arcing above the dark blue surface. A mile off California's northern coast, the watery tail struck the steamship Argonaut with such force the rivets exploded from its steel hull as though they were fired from a Gatling gun.
One hundred fifty miles north of San Francisco, the fissure burst ashore, cleaving Alder Creek in two, and rumbled into the fishing village at Point Arena. It cracked the Point Arena Lighthouse like a bull whip and tossed the sleeping light keeper into the opposite wall, inches below the window.
The rip tore across Humboldt County like an invisible plowman, leveling mile after mile of ancient forest, swallowing cabins and farmhouses, tossing livestock and laborers, catapulting a deliveryman through the window of a grocery store where he was buried beneath tins of beans and pork. It lifted the mountain above Mill Creek, dropping a million tons of dirt and shale, fir and redwood on the lumber mill below, burying fifteen lumberjacks, mule tenders, trimmers, and pond monkeys. Ripping south, it moved a farmhouse twenty feet, dropping it intact before a barn where its owner was trying unsuccessfully to milk his frightened heifers.
In Sonoma County, it pulverized the old Russian church at Fort Ross and splintered thousands of virgin oak and redwood trees, the deafening staccato echoing for miles through the surrounding canyons.
The tip dove back toward the sea, shattering miles of Sonoma County cliffs, burying pristine beaches under tons of shale and granite, shoving long-submerged shoals above the waterline.
It re-emerged near the promontory of Bodega Head, flattening the Bodega Bay Hotel and a dozen sleeping occupants like a phantom steamroller. At Marshall, it lifted the town's waterfront hotel and dropped it into the bay, submerging the lobby in water, leaving the sleeping tenants on the floor above unharmed. It split Tomales Bay down the middle, moving the western shoreline eighteen feet north.
Engineer Andy McNab, shoveling coal into the boiler of his locomotive at Point Reyes Station, heard a grinding sound and turned to see the ridges above him rolling like waves at sea. Paper Mill Creek before him narrowed by six feet, its wooden bridge bent like a giant toothpick. The wave bucked McNab and his train's four cars into an adjacent poppy field.
At the tiny village of Bolinas, the rip cleaved the cliffs in two and tossed heavy redwood docks into the sea. A barren field became a lagoon, its cloverleaf indentation swelling with water from the Pacific.
The rip rolled on through southern Marin County, a giant serpent beneath an earthen blanket. It raced past Alcatraz, leaving the island untouched, the prisoners still snoring in their bunks.
The trembling beneath San Francisco grew as thirty-five thousand structures began a violent hula dance. Along the Barbary Coast, chandeliers bucked, tables overturned, and gamblers were hurled from their seats. The Red Rooster and The Olde Whore Shoppe began collapsing, burying their drunken patrons.
In Chinatown a few blocks away, terrified occupants clung to their airborne beds as the flimsy tenements burst at their mortared seams, pitching everything and everyone to the streets. In the dank basements, floors collapsed on opium smokers, fan-tan players, and prostitutes.
Along the waterfront, a thousand boats slammed against the docks, spilling cargo into the sea, pitching crews overboard. San Francisco Bay rose two feet, the water sloshing back and forth for a hundred miles.
The Palace Hotel, with twelve hundred sleeping guests and staff, swayed in an enormous circle, grinding and wrenching against its steel bracing, the upper floors leaning out over the sidewalks of Market Street and New Montgomery. Enrico Caruso awoke to the sound of tinkling chandeliers and the sensation of his bed hopping about the room, his carefully hung self-portraits raining down on top of him.
Along regal Van Ness Avenue, the cobblestones resembled popping corn and the hills undulated like blankets being shaken out by unseen hands. A young man was bucked into the air and landed on ground that was several feet below where he had stood.
On Mission Street, six vaqueros and sixty steers tumbled and rolled. The animals sprang to their feet, stampeding and trampling fallen passersby.
Inside the mansion on Nob Hill, I prayed aloud and waited for the building to collapse on top of us. I saw Rolf's massive safe spring to life and dance about the room. Ivory tusks took flight, heavy vases shattered, bookshelves ripped loose and crashed on the hard oak floors.
Just outside the front gate, the six members of The Brotherhood were pinned to the ground, unable even to crawl. California Street became a giant roller coaster, the cable car tracks twisting and snaking, fire hydrants blasted skyward.
The rip tore south along the Peninsula, smashed through the mansions of Hillsborough and Belmont, and leveled building after building at Stanford University, including the stable Hunter Fallon had called home. It shattered the booming downtown area of San Jose.
Finally, it dove back into the Pacific at Monterey, sending shock waves south to Los Angeles, and rattled windows in the small beach town of Santa Monica.
Then it stopped. It had lasted less than a minute.
At the crest of Nob Hill, Hunter and Christian struggled to their knees as the city fell silent for a moment, save for the maniacal clanging of a hundred church bells.
Carlo scrambled over the buckled street shrieking, "Max! Max!" His brother lay crushed beneath an iron lamppost. Carlo's cries were soon drowned by the mounting thunder of hundreds of buildings spilling into the streets. Billowing clouds of dust poured skyward, blocking the eerie sunrise.
Inside Rolf's mansion, I struggled to free myself from beneath a mound of books and shattered porcelain. In the dim light ten feet away, Adam Rolf stirred, a bloodstain welling on his trousers where Ting Leo had stabbed him. I realized she had crawled out from beneath me and was lying several feet away, breathing in staccato bursts, her eyes full of terror.
Everything seemed detached, slow, as if we existed in some nether-world. I looked up to find Tommy standing over me, blood streaming from a gash above his eyebrow. He jerked my head back and slid the blade of a large knife against my throat. I tried to move but my limbs seemed soft as dough.
To my left, a muffled shotgun blast tore the door open and Hunter and Christian burst in. Hunter ran toward me, his revolver pointed at Tommy's head. Tommy dropped his knife and stepped away.
Across the room, Christian pointed the double-barreled Remington at Scarface and Kelly.
Adam Rolf struggled to a sitting position and reached for the papers scattered on the floor. The next I knew, my foot was atop his fingers. He cursed, though the words were distant and unclear.
Francis rushed in, clutching his revolver. "Max is gone," he shouted. "We'll need a crane to pull that thing off of him."
Shanghai Kelly smirked and muttered "good riddance."
Christian smashed Scarface across the face with the butt of his shotgun, dropping him to his knees. He then shoved the barrel beneath Kelly's chin.
"You got something to say, Kelly?" Christian demanded.
"Let's get the bracelets on these guys," Francis ordered.
They quickly manacled Scarface, Kelly, Tommy, and Rolf and forced them facedown onto the floor.
Christian, Hunter, and Francis convened in a corner of the room, out of earshot of their prisoners. I walked unsteadily toward them and handed Francis the photographs and affidavits.
Hunter asked if I was all right, and I must have nodded. I was distracted by the sight of Patrick pulling a distraught Carlo away from Max's mangled body.
Francis cleared his dusty throat and spoke quietly. "All right. Hunter, you and I will take these birds to jail. Christian, check on Elizabeth and your kids, then take all the papers to your father's house for safekeeping. Patrick and Carlo can check on our families and talk to Max's mother. We'll arrange a proper burial later. We'll meet up in North Beach in an hour."
"Take my motorcycle," Hunter said to Christian. "It will be a lot faster."
"Let's move," Francis urged, "I got a hunch this is going to be a long day."