46.20°N, 122.18°W; 2,549m

The globequake began with a deep and distant tremble, almost unnoticed by the inhabitants of our world. Molten rock churned and seethed within the magma chamber, slowly squeezing its way into the mountain above; a long dormant volcano that had not erupted since the Holocene, fifty thousand years ago. The magma was slow, thick and stiff – like peanut butter, the extra crunchy kind. As time passed, small earthquakes shook the surrounding area and the magma pushed against the inside surface of the mountain. Something alien had been built to cap the summit, stopping the upward flow of the rising magma. The North side of the mountain eventually buckled under the growing pressure and water trickled into the fractures, turning into steam as it reached the magma. For two months, small explosions erupted from the sides of the mountain as the steam was released. Local authorities evacuated the area in a ten kilometre radius around the mountain. They were just following standard procedure, but, in time, they would come to realise that nothing could have been done.

At 06:34, on a Tuesday morning in 2002, the biggest earthquake yet struck the mountain and the weakened North side collapsed into a gigantic landslide. Forty nine tonnes of rock rolled into Spirit Lake and one hundred and seven tonnes thundered into Toutle River valley, travelling over thirty kilometres and burying roads, villages and bridges with debris. Despite the evacuation of the “red zone”, a team of forty scientists and geologists and nearly a hundred law enforcement officers were crushed to death.

At last the mountain had been uncapped and the gases from the magma inside the mountain burst out into the morning sky. The lateral blast exploded Northwards, carrying shattered rock at speeds in excess of three hundred kilometres per hour and stripped the land and levelled the local forests within minutes. The entire area in close proximity to the mountain was pulverised. The blast weakened after a time, and the rocks it had carried dropped to the ground, felling trees as if they were matchsticks. At the fringe of the blast zone, the searing hot volcanic gas killed everything in its path. Four hundred kilometres from the mountain, the trees were still standing, but stripped of all life.

Following the lateral blast, volcanic ash was continuously ejected into the air for over twelve hours. This sand-like material was carried by the wind, and thick clouds blocked out the sunlight. Day turned into night in every town and city within four hundred kilometres.
Fresh magma poured out of the crater just after midday. The steam, magma, mud and pumice rock flowed down the side of the mountain at a speed of two hundred kilometres per hour and at a temperature of three thousand degrees centigrade. Everything in the path of this pyroclastic flow was sand-blasted, buildings and bridges were crushed, leaving behind a barren deathscape, a lifeless desert.

The deathcount was unimaginable, but this was only the beginning. The globequake had begun, here at 46.20°N, 122.18°W; 2 549 m—Mount St. Hilary.