Quake

  But she forgot her nausea when she saw that the woman who'd been dragged out of her car was gone, for sure. Here was the biker who'd fallen across her rump. And here was the sleeve of her cream-colored blouse. Pete apparently hadn't shot her, after all. A possum player, same as me. After all the gunplay, she'd simply gotten to her feet, climbed back into her car, and driven away. Maybe. Or maybe someone took her. Threw her in the car and raced off with her. None of the bikers could've done that; all of them had been dead before the final gunfight. Maybe a scavenger snatched her. Guns and crowns and ladies.

  Then how come he didn't take me? Thought was dead? Quit stalling, she told herself. You've gotta find Pete. She moved her gaze to the bodies that she hadn't yet studied - that she'd been avoiding, knowing Pete would be among them and not wanting to see him dead. So long as she didn't see him, she could keep her hope that he'd survived the gunshot. Just turn around and walk away, she thought. Don't look. You don't want to see him dead. If you don't see him, you can remember him the way he looked when he was alive. How he looked in the pickup truck. How he felt. Sobbing, she wiped her tears away. If you don't see him, you can pretend he's still alive and you'll meet again someday, and he isn't gone forever, and you'll kiss him again, and you can go off somewhere secret in the moonlight and make love all night long.

  Clint heard the approaching roar. Before he could say anything, the road began to jump and shake under his feet. 'Holy Samolie!' Em yelled. Mary cried out, 'Oh, God!' Tugged from both sides, Clint stumbled and capered about like a blind man at a square dance, torn between two partners.

  'Aftershock!' Em shouted. Was there triumph in her voice? She'd been predicting a big aftershock, and here it was. Clint hated that he couldn't see. He knew that they were somewhere on Crescent Heights, and they'd crossed Wilshire a while ago. But he couldn't see what buildings might be near enough to collapse on them, couldn't see what might be overhead about to fall and crush them, couldn't see anything at all except for the blackness. As he pranced sideways, Mary cried 'Wah!' and his right arm was suddenly dragged downward. He stumbled and fell, not knowing whether he would land on hard pavement or soft Mary. He landed on Mary. Em, still gripping his left arm, was pulled down on top of him. The quake stopped. From the feel of things, Clint supposed that his fall had been cushioned by Mary's chest. She was gasping for air as if she'd just finished a sprint. Em seemed to be pressing down against Clint's left side, straddling his hip as if it were a saddle. He felt her chest working like a bellows against his upper arm, her breath brushing the side of his neck.

  After a few moments, she said, 'That was a good one.'

  'Are we okay?' Clint asked.

  'Bet it was a six-point-five. Maybe better.'

  'Can everybody climb off me, now?' Mary asked.

  'Nothing's going to fall on us?' Clint asked.

  'Nope,' Em said. She squirmed and pushed. Her weight went away from him. 'We're in the middle of the street.'

  'Is anything coming?'

  'Nope. No cars. No nothing. Give you a pull?'

  'Maybe you'd better let go.'

  Em let go, and Clint suddenly felt as if she had vanished. 'Don't go anywhere,' he said. 'Right here.'

  As he tried to climb off Mary, she helped by pushing at him and rolling. He seemed to skid across her body. When she was out from under him, the hard flatness of the pavement pressed against his back. He started to rise, but was held down by a hand on his chest.

  'Don't.' It was Mary's voice. 'Don't move. We gotta rest. I'm dying.'

  'You're long overdue,' Em said. 'You were supposed bite it at Sunset.'

  'So much for predictions,' Mary said. She sounded tired.

  'God almighty,' Em muttered.

  Clint wondered if she was thinking about Loreen. The fortune-teller had sure predicted death at Sunset, but missed by a mile on who would die. The single advantage of losing his eyesight: he hadn't been able to see the remains of Loreen and Caspar. By the time the big battle was over and Clint had gotten around to the rear door of the van, the guy inside had apparently stripped off their clothes, scalped them both and gotten some sort of vile, intimate surgery that Em and Mary had refused to give details about. The guy had greeted Clint with a can of spray paint- a blast of black paint full in the face. Full in the eyes. Clint remembered hearing giggles through his own outcry. But the giggles had stopped very fast. Must have been a nasty surprise for the guy: taking out the big tough man who had the Bowie knife, only to be killed within seconds by two women.

  A real 'team effort,' according to Em. While Clint had stumbled backward away from the door, Em had hurled her hunting knife. 'Got him right in the throat,' she'd bragged.

  'Sure,' Mary'd said. 'With the hilt.'

  'But it knocked him down, didn't it? I had it planned that way, so you could get all the glory.'

  'So I could get the dirty work, you mean.'

  They'd sounded mighty cheerful for two gals talking about how they'd subdued a man and slashed his throat. But Clint supposed they had every right to feel proud of themselves. They'd done a hell of a job.

  If they hadn't found the bodies of Loreen and Caspar, they probably would've started a party right there in the rear of the van. With water she'd found inside the van, Mary had washed out Clint's eyes. The water had taken away some of the burning sting, but hadn't restored his vision. Em had tied a cloth around his head - a blindfold to protect his eyes from the sunlight. Then they'd each taken one of his arms and guided him across lane after lane, weaving through a tangle of stopped vehicles until they reached the other side.

  'Guess what,' Em had said, shaking his arm. 'We made it. We got all the way across Sunset. And Mary's still alive.'

  'Maybe that was the only bunch of killers,' Clint had suggested.

  'Maybe,' Em had said. 'But maybe what happened, the other gangs, they saw how we totally demolished that bunch of weirdos and so they figured us for bad news and hid when they saw us coming.'

  Mary had made a quiet chuckle. 'That's us, bad news. Two babes and a blind guy.'

  'You know what, Mary?'

  'You're gonna tell me, Em.'

  'Looks to me like adversity agrees with you. You were a major sort of pain in the old rumpazoid a few hours ago, and now you're almost human. Why do you think that is?'

  'Better not look a gift horse in the mouth.'

  'Yeah. Good point. Maybe you just like killing people.'

  'I think it might be the other way around,' Clint had said.

  'She likes saving people. And she's been doing a damn fine job of it, too.'

  After that, they'd continued on their way. Em on one of his arms, Mary on the other. Guiding him around describing what they saw: the collapsed buildings, the crack in the pavement, the abandoned vehicles, an occasional group of people digging through rubble in search of buried treasure or people trapped beneath fallen walls. There seemed to be few people wandering about. Mary and Em reported seeing no roving gangs, though they saw plenty of dead bodies. Most of the bodies had been robbed and maimed. Clint wasn't able to see them, which was fine with him. He was glad that he couldn't look at the bad stuff, hated not being able to keep watch for trouble. He felt as if he'd betrayed Em and Mary. He was supposed to be the guardian. How could he protect them when he couldn't the dangers? What if don't get better? he wondered. How can I take care of Sheila and Barbara…? Maybe they're dead. No! It occurred to him, lying there on the street with Em and Mary beside him, that he might already have found himself a replacement family. Don't want replacements. I want Sheila and Barbara. He elbowed the pavement and sat up. 'We've gotta going. I have to get home.'

  He raised his arms. He reached out to each side. Mary clutched his right hand and said, 'I'm ready.' His left hand, searching for Em, found her face. She didn't say anything, or move. He felt her forehead and eyebrows under his fingers, her nose pressing against his palm, her lips soft near the heel of his hand. They kissed him. Wouldn't mind keeping you around, he thought. If your mother d
idn't make it…Stop it. He gave Em's nose a gentle twist. Then she took hold of his hand.

  'We better hit the trail,' she said. 'Time's a-wastin'

  When Weed swung the knife into the side of Stanley's neck, the butcher knife only nicked his throat as the quake shoved Weed away. She staggered away from him through the pitching, raging water. Mixed in with the hurricane roar of the quake was the crash of gunshot. Stanley, thrown off his feet and falling, didn't feel a hit. He twisted around. For a moment before the water blurred his sight, he glimpsed Judy above the corner of the pool. She looked like a terrified sailor dancing the Hornpipe, her revolver jabbing at the sky. Water closed down over Stanley's head. He was tossed, shoved, rolled over. Gonna drown. Shit. It rushed through his mind that the aftershock had come like a miracle, just in time to save him from Weed's knife and Judy's.357 magnum or whatever it was - but it had been a big joke, a false save, a dirty trick. It had saved him from them just to drown him. Gonna drown in three feet of water. Should've fucked Sheila in her safe, dry tub. But the vicious currents of the pool suddenly lost their grip on Stanley. He splashed and thrust his face into the air. His feet found the bottom. He stood up. Judy was no longer standing at the corner of the pool. Had she fallen in? If she's in, I'll take her. Get that gun. But he could've spotted her easily if she had fallen into the pool; the water was only waist-deep and almost clear. She wasn't in it. She must've fallen backward. He glanced at Sheila. She still hung from the bottom of the ladder. She looked freshly splashed, glossy. I'll nail you again after get rid of these two…

  Judy came stumbling to the edge of the pool, looming above him, the revolver in her hand. Stanley glanced at Weed. Out of reach, still submerged. Try and get to her, use her for a shield? She'd probably cut my balls off. Do something quick. Stanley flung himself sideways, splashed down, battered his way through the shallow water until the pool slanted up under him. He scurried along, racing over the slick tiles toward the stairs at the end of the pool. Gonna catch one in the back.

  'Stop!' Judy shouted from behind him. 'Stop or I'll shoot.'

  'Don't shoot!' Stanley yelled, and kept on running. 'Stop!'

  'Don't shoot!'

  She fired. Off to Stanley's right, a blue tile exploded. A flying chip from it slashed his calf. He bounded up the pool stairs. Judy fired again.

  ***

  Dad's old blue Ford wasn't in the driveway. It wasn't out front by the curb, either. It was nowhere to be seen. Beat him home, Barbara thought. Then she saw that the house was down. She muttered, 'Oh, my God,' but could hardly hear her voice over the rumble of the Harley's engine. She steered into the driveway, coasted to a stop, and put down her feet to hold the huge motorcycle steady. The vibrations of the bike made the house seem to shake. She shut off the engine and dismounted. She stared at the ruins. If Mom was in there when it fell down like that… She's gotta be all right, Barbara told herself. Gotta be. I made it, didn't I? Mom made it, too. Somehow. Please. You've all gotta be all right - Mom and Dad - Pete, too, wherever he is. Standing in the driveway, she yelled, 'Mom! Mom?' She listened for an answer. None came. She knew that she would have to enter the demolished house and search for her. Gonna find her crushed. No! She's fine. Barbara felt a sick reluctance to start the search. She decided to fix her bandage. Back in the alley, after checking all the bodies and not finding Pete, she had pulled the T-shirt off the biker who'd worn the Viking helmet. Somehow, his shirt had escaped most of the blood from his shot head. She'd folded it into a long pad, placed it against the raw furrow on her side, then strapped it in place with the guy's wide, leather belt. The makeshift bandage had worked fine for a block or two, but then the rough vibrations of the motorcycle had started shaking it down her ribcage. She'd caught the T-shirt in time to save it, and tucked it under the front of the belt. Now, the belt drooped around her waist, the T-shirt hanging from it like a loincloth. She started to take off her blouse, then changed her mind.

  This wasn't some alley far from home; this was the driveway in front of her house. Neighbors might be watching. Her back to the street, she peeled the sticky blouse away from her side. She slipped the T-shirt underneath, placed it gently against her wound, and strapped it secure with the belt. Then she fastened a couple of buttons to hold her blouse shut. She took a deep breath. It made her lungs ache the way they usually ached when she got home from the family's annual visit to the L.A. County Fair in Pomona - a day of breathing badly polluted air. She guessed that the ache, now, came from too much smoke and dust.

  She wondered if she would ever again go to the Fair with her mom and dad. Wondered if she would ever again see them alive.

  She swallowed. Her mouth and throat felt very dry. Go on and get it over with, she told herself. Stalling won't make it any better. And what if Mom needs help? She decided to check around, one more time before going into the house. So she turned slowly and scanned the neighbourhood. At the far corner, a house had burned down. A couple of homes had been destroyed, some had major damage, a few looked almost unharmed. She saw no one. No one at all, dead or alive. If a gang had come through, she told herself, there'd be a lot of bodies around. That's good news, at least. But where is everyone? At work, she supposed. Or at school. Or staying in their houses - cleaning up the messes, or hiding. She wondered if any of her neighbors had turned wild and gone on a rampage. Some must've, she thought. Damn near everyone she'd encountered had been way or the other. As if the quake had released a virus in the depths of the earth - a virus that turned people into savages. Barbara doubted that anything like that had happened though. Nobody'd gone nuts because of a virus or a gas or invaders. It seemed to be more like everyone had a drooling lunatic walled up inside, eager to get free, and the quake had broken apart the walls holding them in. Everyone but me and Pete. Pretty much. Maybe we went nuts, too, and just didn't notice. Who knows, who knows, who knows?

  Quit smiling. She wished she still had a gun. Or a knife. Or any weapon at all. She had nothing. Doesn't matter, she told herself. Nobody's around. Not yet, anyway.

  She started walking toward the remains of her home. She was only vaguely aware that she no longer had a house to live in, that everything she owned was probably broken or mined, that her life would never be the same as it had been before the earthquake. She supposed that, later, such things might really hurt. For now, though, all she really cared about was the safety of her mother and father. If they're okay, she thought, everything else'll turn out all right. And if Pete's okay, too. But she'd seen Pete go down, shot. He might've crawled off, she supposed. But why would he do that? Maybe the woman had driven him away in her Lincoln. Or his body could've been rushed off in a shopping cart by some filthy scavenger who wanted him for reasons too awful to think about. Just don't think about him. Barbara climbed the front stoop. The house looked like a bombed-out ruin. I've never seen a bombed-out ruin, she reminded herself. Well, in documentaries. But she'd seen something that reminded her… Places burnt during the L.A. riot of '92. Those places had been black, though- smoked and charred. No fires, here. Just everything torn apart, shattered, smashed, splintered, crushed.

  'Mom?' she called out. 'Mom! Are you here?'

  She stood motionless and held her breath. Everything seemed very quiet. The only sounds came far off: sirens, car engines, bangs that were probably shouts, helicopters. The activity was elsewhere. Los Angeles was a place of troubles, but her neighborhood had always been spared - a tranquil island surrounded by raging seas and sharks. It was tranquil now. Tranquil, but devastated.

  'Mom?' she called again. 'Where are you? Can you hear me?' She listened again.

  And heard a groan from somewhere in the debris. It seemed to come from her left, from someplace in the area where the kitchen used to be.'Hello?' she called. 'Mom?'

  'Buh - Barrrr?' It was barely a murmur, but she heard.

  'Yes!' she cried out, tears flooding her eyes. It's me! I'm home! Where are you? Talk to me. I'm on way.'

  She started trudging through the rubble, steppin
g carefully to avoid nails and broken glass.

  'I'm okay,' she explained. 'Basically. I got shot a little but I'm okay. We got stuck downtown 'cause Mr Wellen went nuts. The driver's ed teacher? He flipped out. God, you're lucky you were here. It was like a horror movie downtown, you wouldn't believe it. Are you here? Could you say something?'

  She went silent and halted. Heard nothing. 'Mom?'

  'Baaa… bath…'

  'You're in the bathroom?'

  'Tub.'

  'You're in the tub? Great! I'll find you. That's probably what saved you, the tub. I saw what the house looked like, and figured you… I just hoped you weren't in it, that's all. I hope Dad's all right. He's probably stuck in traffic somewhere. You wouldn't believe how crazy it is out there. Everyone went nuts. People are getting murdered right and left… The good news is, the National Guard's supposed to get here tomorrow. That's what I hear. Won't be a minute too soon, if you ask…'

  The head stopped her voice. It was stating up at her from the cluttered floor behind the refrigerator. A head of tangled black hair and shaggy beard and blood and plaster crumbs. Its neck, near Barbara's foot, was an ugly raw stump. She took a quick step backward to get away from it.

  'Mom? Who's this?' No answer came.

  'There's a head over here.'

  She was answered by a groan from somewhere not far beyond the half-buried stove. Approximately where the bathroom should be.

  She hurried toward it. When she got past the stove, she found a body stretched out alongside a place where the floor was missing. A man. All his clothes were gone. He had his head, though. A gang got here, after all. Scavengers. Mom. Barbara stepped past the head of the naked man and down into the hole in the floor where she expected to find the tub. The tub was there, but not her mother. The body at the bottom of the tub was a man, a little guy in black leather pants and boots. He had no hair but he had his head. It was hairless. He didn't even have eyebrows. He didn't even have eyes. His sockets were dark, gooey pits. Barbara jerked her gaze away from them and raised her head. Turning, she scanned the broken remains of the house.