'Hey, Ma!' Stanley yelled. 'The sky is falling!' She didn't seem to hear him.
As if somebody had heard him, however, the house collapsed. Not all of it, though. The part that collapsed did not include the living. From his reclined easy chair, Stanley only saw the bit that happened just beyond the dining room archway. A cave-in that smashed the table flat against the floor, disintegrated the chairs and buried it all under a pile of wood and stucco. Through the thick fog of dust, he saw sunlight shining down on the heaped debris. He muttered, 'Holy fucking shit.' He thought, I'd better get my butt out of here now. He pictured himself making a detour on his way to the door. Scooping Mother out of her wheelchair and running with her, dodging this way and that as sundered support slammed down. Getting out the door and clear of the house even as the rest of it crashed down. Quit thinking about it and DO it. But what if leave her? What if leave her and the house falls down? Wouldn't that be a fucking pity? let's just get my own ass out of here - and quick. As he leaned forward and shoved his heels against the footrest, the quake stopped. The end of the roar left a great silence. Mixed in with the silence were quiet sounds. Stanley heard the house creaking as its motions subsided. He heard the distant wow-wow-wow of car and house alarms. Somewhere far off, dogs were barking. His mother's wheelchair was silent. So was her voice. He looked at her. She sat motionless, still hunkered over, head down, hands still clutching the push rims of her wheelchair.
'Mother?' Stanley asked. She didn't move. 'Mother, are you all right?'
Stanley raised himself out of the chair. 'Mother?'
She lifted her head. White powder and flakes drifted off her hair and shoulders as she sat up. Her pink-framed glasses hung crooked on her face. She straightened them. She blinked at Stanley. Her chin was trembling. Spittle had dribbled down from her mouth, cutting moist streaks through the plaster dust. In a shaky, piping voice, she said, 'It's over?’
'It's over,' Stanley told her. He went to her.
'What ever will we do now?’
'Nothing to worry about,' Stanley said. He crouched beside her wheelchair and picked up a bit of plaster the size of a flagstone. He hefted it overhead. He could see by the look in her eyes that she suddenly knew what was coming.
'Stanley!'
She cringed away and started to bring up arm. The good, heavy slab of plaster broke the top of her head. It made a thuck. She made an 'Hunhf-' Her glasses hopped down to the tip of her nose, but didn't fall off. Stanley held on to half the plaster slab. The slab bounced off Mother's right shoulder and dropped to the floor. She sat very still for a moment. Stanley raised his slab. While he considered whether or not to hit her again, her head slumped down. Slowly, she leaned forward. Her arms fell. They punched her skirt, making a narrow valley between her thighs. She leaned farther and farther as if hoping to peer down over her knees and find something wonderful her chair. Stanley stepped back and watched. She leaned so far forward that her knuckles brushed the debris on the floor. Then her rump lifted off the seat. Her head thumped the floor. She did a clumsy, crooked somersault that showed off more of her gray pantyhose than Stanley cared to see. Her legs came down straight and fast. The heels of her shoes exploded glass shards from the demolished window. She bucked as if trying to sit up, then down again and lay still. Stanley gave her hip a tap with the toe of his moccasin.
'Mother? Mother, are you all right?' She didn't stir. She didn't answer. He gave her a good solid kick. The blow shook her, wobbled her and he saw blood trickling out of her ear. 'That's a bad sign,' he said, and couldn't help but laugh. Then his laughing stopped. What killed it was the thought that Sheila Banner might be crushed beneath the rubble of her home.
***
One minute before the quake hit, Clint Banner glanced at his empty coffee mug. It was emblazoned with a portrait of Cogburn from True Grit. A birthday present from Barbara, who liked to insist that Clint looked 'exactly Hondo.' She hadn't been able to find a mug with Hondo on however, so she'd settled for Cogburn. 'I know you like that,' she'd said, making a face. To which Clint responded, trying to mimic Duke's cadence and voice, 'give me a couple more years and an eye patch, little lady.' He yawned again.
It was eight-nineteen on Friday morning. He had been up since four-thirty, his gimmick for beating the system. Get out of bed, dress in the bathroom so you don't wake anyone and hit the road by a quarter to five for a forty-minute through the dark. A drive that would take you twice as long if you slept to a reasonable hour like six. Arriving early meant you had the offices to yourself for a few hours. That was nice. And you got to leave before two, ahead of during the afternoon rush. Plenty of advantages.
Took a lot out of you, though. Another yawn, then Clint picked up his empty mug, slid back his chair, and sidestepped clear of his desk. He planned to get a refill. But he only took one step.
He had time to wonder what that roar was. Then in an instant he knew what it was. Not an eighteen- Wheeler heading toward the building. Not a Boeing 747 about to take down the wall. The roar came out of nowhere and before Clint could quite have time to wonder what it might be he knew it was a quake as it hit. It sounded like a quake. It felt like a quake. This was California, land of quakes, so it probably wasn't a truck crashing into the building. It wasn't a tornado inside the office with him. It wasn't the shock wave from a comet nuclear warhead striking ground zero a mile away; it might feel and sound a lot like this, but this was an earthquake.
First it roared. Then it hurled a body block against Clint. He staggered sideways, but kept his feet. It had never hit him so hard before. A good one, he thought. A really good one. Maybe a six-Maybe bigger.
Time for it to fade away now. It didn't fade. It grew. It shook the window blinds so hard they clattered and splintered windows. It killed the fluorescent lights. It wobbled the walls. It clawed acoustical tiles off the ceiling. It filled the air with the flying debris of papers, case files, Rolodexes, staplers. Drawers of desks and file cabinets fell open. Computer keyboards and monitors slid and fell on the floor. Chairs on wheels raced across the wild floor. Clint thought, My God, it's the Big One. This is it.
He wondered if this was his day to die. Just stand your ground, he told himself. It'll go away. Standing his ground was not easy. The office and jumped. The carpet had waves in it - combers two feet high that raced for the wall. Impossible, he thought. He was seeing it, though - floor surf. Clint pranced and stayed up. And thought, It's a race. Which calls it quits first, the quake or the building?
If the quake wins, I'm dead meat. He began his dash for the stairway. Knees pumping, arms overhead. Dodging, jumping. Get the fuck outa here!
As he ran, he recalled his years of glib wisdom. His cracks. 'When your number's up,' pause for effect, 'it's eight-point-five.' A little Richter scale humor. Or his favourite bit: 'No call to be afraid of earthquakes. A quake is completely harmless, never hurt anyone.' Pause for effect. 'It's the sky that falls on your head that'll kill you!'
Or taking a dive down the stairway, he suddenly thought. At the top of the stairs, he reached for the handrail and missed. He reached again. This time, he caught the wooden rail. But it was jerked out of his grip. No holding on. The stairwell looked like a narrow tunnel. A steep one. funhouse slide into a pit. It juddered and twitched down to where the light from above faded. The landing and door were somewhere below in the darkness. Don't try it, Clint told himself. Wait till the shaking stops. Sure thing. He bounded down the stairs, leaping, taking two at a time, Slapping the walls to help his balance. Like sprinting down a mountainside, an avalanche on your back. You'll probably take a headfirst dive, but it's worth the effort. Staying in front so you don't get buried, Staying in front, no matter what. Gotta get outa this place! Through the roar of the quake, he heard his own yell.
It occurred to him that a fellow with more panache might yell 'Geronimo!' in such straits. But all Clint yelled on his stampede down the stairwell was, 'YAHHHHHHH!!!' At the bottom, he crashed against a wall. He bounced off, fell against the s
tairs, scurried up and pawed the shuddering door until he found its handle. He levered the handle down. Light from the foyer stung his eyes. He rushed out of the stairwell, dashed across the reception area, flung himself against the front door, threw it open and managed to get outside into the morning sunlight. The earth still shook. The quake still roared.
My God, Clint thought, it's never going to stop! Covering his head with both arms, he raced into the street. Into the middle of the street, away from falling glass and walls that might crumble. He whirled around. The two-story building that housed the law offices of Haversham Dumont, his employers, appeared to bounce and shimmy. Clint knew it couldn't possibly be jumping about so much without disintegrating. It's jumping, but not as much as am, he thought. He glanced up and down the street. Saw several cars.
Couldn't tell for sure whether they were parked. Probably just parked, he thought. Nobody could be driving through all this. The cars were being tossed about like skiffs on a sea. And seemed to shriek with panic, their the quake. A sound like the rip of tough fabric made Clint snap head forward. He muttered, 'Jesus!' Moments before of the office building had been intact except for shattered windows. Now, it looked as if an oak its way through the stucco wall. Got out of there just in the nick of time. A horn blared. Its noise melded with the car alarms the roar of the quake and a legion of other noises shatters and clashes and slams and sirens - so that he was only vaguely aware of the horn. The blare was like something glimpsed in his peripheral vision. Something barely vaguely troubling. Until it wailed in his ears and he turned his head to see a red Toyota pickup truck torpedoing at him through the surf.
He yelled, 'SHIT!' and dived for the curb. Airborne, he thought he'd done a halfway decent job leaping clear. The bastard wouldn't kill him, clip off both his feet at the ankles. But he felt no pain until he landed. The ground hit his hands and knees, slammed his chest, knocked him out. For a moment, he felt as if he were sliding down a grater. Then he stopped skidding. He thought, Bastard! raised his head, wanting to shout at the crazy asshole at the wheel of the Toyota. But he had no breath for shouting. The van owner had painted out some of the big white letters. Changing the brand name to TOY. Clint realized that he had actually been able to read the word TOY. The word TOY was not a vibrating, pounding blur.
The quake's stopped. Thank God. Thank my God because the red TOY hadn't slowed down for the cross-street any more than it had slowed for him, and this time there wasn't a man in its way but BMW rushing into the intersection from the left. Just short of the crosswalk, the TOY cut hard to the right. Maybe the driver thought he had cleared the curb. Maybe he figured a bounce over the curb would be better than getting broadsided by the BMW. But hadn't he sliced the power pole? Maybe he'd figured it would snap like a toothpick when he hit it, and he would speed merrily on his way.
The pole did snap. But the driver didn't speed through a quick spray of splinters. The pole didn't burst into splinters at all. Instead, its stump bludgeoned its way through the front of the TOY. The TOY stopped very fast. Clint couldn't see what happened to the driver. But the man in the passenger seat blasted headfirst through the windshield. He wore a blue baseball cap, a plaid shirt, and jeans. Obviously, he had not worn a seatbelt. He soared over the TOY's crumpled hood. The crown of his baseball cap looked smashed flat. The bill of the cap dangled by one corner and flapped like a fractured wing. His blue jeans were at knee level as he shot past the power pole. They slipped lower, hobbling his ankles as he glided down for a landing on the far side of the corner. The BMW, brakes shrieking, intercepted him. He hit the passenger window headfirst. The window burst. His head went through it. The rest of his body didn't. The rest of his body snapped sideways and slammed the front of the car, then dropped away. It tumbled and fell headless, as the BMW skidded to a halt and the power finished its downsweep and finally crashed against the TOY.
The TOY, its dented roof supporting one end of it looked like a cheap metal parody of the Passion - a Jesus wheels that had broken down on the way to Calvary. Snapped lines, alive with juice, whipped above the crossbeams.
Clint got to his feet fast, ready to bolt if any of the should try for him. The way they leaped and sprang about, no telling… The lines died. They went limp, sagged in midair, dropped toward the pavement. It's over, Clint thought. Over. And I'm still here. He took a deep breath. He looked around. Nothing was shaking any more. Buildings on the street were still standing, but two on the next had collapsed, piling the southbound lane with rubble. No cars seemed to be moving. made it, he thought. The Big One's over, and I'm here. A few scratches, that's all. He looked at the scuffed heels of his hands. Then at the torn knees of his trousers. It wasn't the quake, it was the Toyota that near creamed me. He pictured himself saying that to Sheila and Barbara. It was the sort of crack they would expect from him, and he would have to remember to lay it on them when they all sat and told each other their stories… What if they're not okay? They were in it, too, you dumb shit. A quake that strong… Maybe it wasn't so bad over on the west side. They're more than thirty miles from here. Maybe it was worse. For all you know, Sheila or Barbara might be… He didn't allow himself to think the word, but he pictured them dead. Sheila at home, Barbara at school. Both of them crushed and bloody and dead.
Clint swung his eyes to the ejected TOY passenger, glimpsed a smear of red between the shoulders, noticed that the pants had disappeared entirely, along with both the shoes, He had looked away fast to avoid seeing more. They might be like him. No. They're all right. They're fine. I'VE GOT TO GET HOME. NOW. RIGHT NOW. Clint ducked slightly. Close to the ground, the building had open spaces like long narrow windows. He ran his eyes along them until he spotted his old Ford Granada. Just the roof and windshield were visible. His car looked fine. So did the parking lot. Nothing had collapsed in there. He was glad to see no other cars. He'd assumed no one else had arrived at work by the time the quake hit, hadn't been absolutely certain. Several people who showed up around eight-thirty worked on the ground and he didn't always hear them arrive. They're probably stuck in traffic somewhere. Traffic's gonna be a bear. I'd better take side streets. He raced for the parking lot entrance. As he ran, he took the keys from his pocket. He scurried down a short slope of driveway, stopped at the side of the rolldown security gate, and found the key to it. His hand shook badly. He used his other hand to put the key into the slot. He twisted the key. Nothing happened. 'Come on come on come on.' He twisted the key again.
With a quiet hum and metallic clatters and rattles, the gate should be lifting clear of the driveway. There was no hum. The gate didn't stir. Clint looked over his shoulder at the intersection. The signals weren't red, yellow or green. They showed no light all. He twitched the key, trying to make it work. But he knew it wouldn't. Not with the power down. He could get to his car easily enough. But the gate was the only way out. Bash through it? Oh, sure.
'Movie crap,' he muttered. This is real life, and you don't drive through a gate like that and speed merrily on your way. If you're lucky enough to live through the crash, your car bites the dust. No way. If he disabled his car with a stunt like that, it wouldn't get him home. And that was all that mattered to Clint at the moment. He had to get home. Had to make sure Sheila was okay. And Barbara. Again, he pictured them crushed. A quake never hurt anyone - it's the shit that falls on you. Please, God, let them be all right. Clint jerked his key from the slot. He kicked the gate. Damn it! His car was fine! His car was in great shape, safe and sound, just waiting to speed him home.
But useless! Trapped inside a goddamn parking lot! Jailed. What do do now? he wondered. Start walking?
He climbed to the crest of the driveway. He scanned the cars scattered along the curbs. Though alarms still blared, nobody had come along to check on them. Steal one? How about a little grand-theft auto? Hell, Clint didn't know how to go about stealing one. You pull the ignition? You cross some wires? Sure thing. Like which wires?
He frowned at the TOY pickup. He could take that and nobod
y was likely to make a fuss. It even, certainly, had the key in its ignition. But from the looks of the thing, it was as dead as its passenger, as dead as the driver who was somewhere out of sight beneath the smashed-down top. The BMW still sat in its lane just to the right of the lights. Bending over slightly, Clint could see the driver. She was sitting motionless, her head turned towards the passenger window. Clint thought she was staring at him. I'm a witness, he thought. She probably wants to get my name and stuff. He raised a hand at the woman. Then he hurried her. His legs felt weak and spongy. His head buzzed. Too much action, he thought. Too much everything. I'm still here. And so is she. He almost called, 'Don't leave,' but stopped himself. He didn't want to give her any ideas. She wasn't moving, though. Just staring. Staring, but not at me, Clint realized as he neared her. Her gaze was aimed lower. At the passenger seat. Clint suddenly knew why. 'It's all right,' he said. She didn't respond. She just kept gazing at the sight of her odd companion.
A curl of brown hair draped her brow. Otherwise she looked neat and prim in her white blouse and her gray jacket and skirt. Clint guessed she'd been on her way to an office job. She wore very little makeup. 'It's all right,' he said again. 'It wasn't your fault… the whole thing. You won't be in any sort of trouble.'
She didn't respond. Here goes nothing. He stepped forward fast. The head was on the passenger seat. It still wore its baseball cap which had lost its bill completely, and was no longer blue. The head lay face up. It was as red as the baseball cap and was staring at the ceiling, its stump of a neck aimed at the woman. No wonder she's freaked, Clint thought. He grabbed the door handle and pulled, but the door was locked. Instead of wasting time trying to get the gal to unlock it he put his arm through the broken window and found the lock. He flicked it, withdrew his arm, swung the door open and suddenly surprised himself by stopping. He could just sweep the head off the seat, let it fall to the street. He couldn't do it, though. It wasn't garbage. It wasn't a spoiled sandwich or a dirty cloth. It was the head of a man who had been alive a few minutes ago. A man who probably had a family and friends, a job, who was a Dodger fan, who maybe liked to take his kids to the park and eat hot dogs under the sunlight… Whose crime was to be in the passenger seat of a guy who must've panicked when the quake hit. Clint lifted the head gently by both sides of its face. It was heavier than he'd expected. He stepped backward with it and carried it well in front of him so blood wouldn't get on his clothes. He took it to the body sprawled on the pavement. He set it down there, and had a sudden urge to fasten it on somehow - tape it or strap it or…