Quake (41 page)

    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, stepping 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.

    'Mom?'

    She glimpsed a pair of feet sticking out from behind nearby pile of rubble, but the feet wore black boots.

    'MOM.' Barbara shrieked. 'MOM, WHERE ARE YOU? WHAT'S GOING ON?'

    'Here I am, dearie.'

    She flinched. The voice came from just behind her, it sounded like a man mimicking an old lady. She turned around fast. The dead man she'd found stretched out naked on the floor wasn't dead. He was no longer stretched out. He was squatting, leering up at her.

    'Surprise,' he said.

    Barbara felt chilly prickles on the back of her neck. I was right, she thought. One of the neighbors did go wild. He didn't have on a stitch of clothes. His eyes were as wild as any she had ever seen. From the fiery redness of his skin, he must've been out in the sun all day. Hands on his wideapart knees, he made no attempt to hide his erection; it looked as if it were pointing at Barbara's face.

    'Hi, Mr Banks,' she said.

    His leer slipped. 'You know me?'

    'You live behind us. Over there.' She dipped her head in the direction of his house. 'With your mother.'

    He frowned. 'How do you know that?'

    'We've gotten your mail by mistake. I've walked it over to your house a few times. And I've seen you around. Are you all right?'

    Good one, Banner. Sure he's all right. Slipped a few cogs, that's all. And any second he's gonna pounce on your sorry ass and do God only knows what to you.

    'I'm hunky-dory,' he said. 'And you?' What'd he do to Mom? Ask? I don't think so.

    'It hasn't been the best day ever,' Barbara said. 'For one thing, I got shot.'

    His eyes widened. He suddenly looked eager and gleeful. 'Shot? Is that so?'

    'Do you want to see?'

    His gaze latched on the bloody side of her blouse. 'Under there?'

    'Yes.'

    'Show me.'

    Hands trembling, she started to unfasten the two buttons that kept her blouse shut. 'That was a good trick,' she said 'Playing dead? I've used it myself.' Shouldn't have fallen for it. She opened her blouse. Banks nibbled his lower lip. He was still on knees, but now his lower end was swaying a little side to side. 'What's that?' he asked.

    'A belt.' She reached for the buckle that was just by her right breast, and started to unfasten it.

    'I took it off a biker. It's what holds my bandage on.''Ah.'

    'You want the bandage off, don't you?'

    'Sure. I want everything off.'

    She tugged, and the belt went loose around her chest. The rag against her wound started to slip. She pulled and the belt fell out from under her blouse. She kept hold of its buckle. As the leather strap swayed, she shook herself slightly. The sodden T-shirt still stuck to her wound for a moment, then let go. It dropped and fell by her foot.

    'It's sure bloody,' she said. 'That's all right.’

    'Do you want it?'

    'Show me where you were shot.'

    'Okay.'

    He gazed at the bloody side of her blouse. 'Show me'

    'Off with the blouse.' He wiped his mouth with the back hand.

    'First, you have to tell me where my mother is.'

    He grinned. 'Dead. Deader than shit. Like all good whores.'

    The words made a sick, cold hardness grow in the center of Barbara, somewhere just below her chest.

    'I fucked her to death,' Banks said. Rolling his eyes upward and hanging his tongue out, he made quick thrusting motions with his pelvis.

    Barbara whipped the belt at him. He jerked his hands up to block it, but wasn't quick enough. He cried out as the leather strap smacked the side of his face. Barbara leaped away from him, twisted around, and ran.

    'You're dead!' Banks yelled.

    She glanced back. He was already up, already chasing her. He flapped his big arms and brought his knees up high like a crazed man charging through surf. Barbara had a good headstart. She knew that she would be fine if she could make it as far as the patio. Clear of the debris, she would be able to pour on the speed. Banks wouldn't stand a chance of catching her.

    Not far from the remains of the rear wall, she glanced back again. He was huffing along, staggering, farther behind than before. Not gonna get me. She leaped over a small pile of debris, right leg stretching out, foot pounding down. Driving a spike of pain up the middle of her foot. She squealed. Looking down, she saw the point of a nail come up through the top of her sneaker. Oh, my God! She didn't stop running. Her left leg stretched out and went down and landed on nothing horrible, but the pain in her right foot turned to ripping agony. Looking over her shoulder, she saw it kicking up behind her, a plank attached to the bottom of her shoe like a short wooden ski. The toe of the plank stubbed a block of plaster. Barbara fell headlong. Stanley hooked his right hand under the waistband of her shorts and lifted her out of the rabble where she'd fallen. She swung her arms, kicked, squirmed and squealed.

    A few strides, and Stanley was clear of the mined house. He hauled her across the patio. Barbara squirmed and twisted so much that she started to come out of her shorts. When they were halfway down her romp, Stanley lowered her to the concrete and let go. She tried to scuttle away. Crouching, he caught her shorts by their sides and yanked them down to her knees. Her panties went down with them. Though they hobbled her, she kept on crawling. Stanley grabbed them and tugged them the rest of the way off. They took a shoe with them. He glimpsed the bloody bottom of her right sock. And stomped on it. Barbara shrieked. The pain seemed to freeze her on her hands and knees. Stanley grabbed the back of her collar. He jammed his other hand between her legs. With both hands, he picked her up. He carried her to the lounger. The lounger where she liked to stretch out and sunbathe. Where Sheila did, too. Both of them nearly naked in their bikinis - their bodies long and tawny and gleaming. He swung Barbara into position above the faded green pad, and let go. She dropped onto it. He peeled the blouse off her shoulders and down her back. He flung it away. She was facedown on the pad, naked except for one of her socks, one sneaker, and a pad of tissues attached with rubber bands to one of her forearms. Good enough, Stanley said. He spread her legs. No no no no! Turn her over. The best stuffs on the other side! You haven't even seen her tits yet. Standing by the side of the lounger, he bent and reached across her body. He grabbed her upper left arm and hip, then pulled. The lounger suddenly tipped toward him. Barbara was holding on to the aluminum frame under the pad.