by Rod Rayborne
"A library?" Sofia asked.
"Not just a library," Gordon said with ill-concealed delight. This was inspired by the California Missions that ran along the coast from San Francisco to San Diego. Started somewhere back in the eighteenth century I believe by a guy named Serra, Father Serra. It was his attempt to bring what he saw as 'civilization' to the native Americans in California. What's always intrigued me though is the architecture. Its Spanish influence is obvious, the grape vines that were permitted to grow along the walls and long wooden arbors lending the whole affair a kind of Art Nouveau ambiance. Before there was an Art Nouveau."
"Art what?"
"Think vines. Especially grapes. Let's look inside."
Sofia shrugged, following Gordon to the massive iron and wood doors. One was tightly shut, the other swung wide, sitting on the cobbled walk leading to the sidewalk. Gordon noted then that the front of the building had settled downward, resting heavily on the closed door. The door, like the other, had been knocked off its frame, bearing the weight of thirty vertical feet of recently reinforced building front above it with its solid four-inch thick oak planking. One of the great planks had buckled slightly, splinters crisscrossing the angled pieces like long pointed teeth in the mouth of an ancient plesiosaur. Gordon wondered if the building was safe to enter.
"Why don't you wait here? A stiff breeze could bring this place down in a hurry. I just want to have a quick look."
"I'm coming too."
"Suit yourself," he said with a shrug. Gordon looked uncertainly through the open door. The inside was a shaken and stirred collection of books and chunks of white plaster lying in heaps and mounds from wall to wall. The building extended back into the gloom perhaps a hundred feet beyond. Stairs on the right swung upward to a second floor, more like a large loft that ended in a railing three quarters the width of the building, also covered in fallen books.
Diffused sunlight fell in great beams of dusty luminance from cathedral like windows, casting their eerie glow over the stacks with something that felt like the ghostly presence of those who once browsed the shelves, now in death. Only two bodies could be seen resting near an empty window frame. Perhaps they had been looking outside before the blast wave hit, tossing them backwards into the shelves to die among the splinters and pulp. A thin rain of plaster dust dribbled from the ancient ceiling, breaking the silence with a dry musty patter.
"Wow," Sofia said, awed by the destruction. She moved past Gordon, walking gingerly around the piles of books with the deftness of a gazelle. Shafts of light fell across her skin as she moved, casting her body in a radiance that seemed to make her skin glow. Shaking his head, Gordon moved to the right, stepping towards the staircase, testing the first step with a tentative tap of his foot. Nothing shifted under his weight. Thus he proceeded up the aged wooden stairs, wondering how many other feet had trod the steps before him. Reaching the top, he walked among the books, pushing them side-to-side with his shoe, reading the titles.
A book on Frank Lloyd Wright told him the second floor was dedicated to non-fiction. He looked down at Sofia. She had squatted among a mound of novels, pushing them around until she chanced upon one that brought a smile to her face.
"Look here," she cried out, holding up the book for Gordon to see. "Little Women! I loved this when I was a kid." She flipped through the pages and then clutched it to her chest. Then sliding her pack off, she pushed the book inside."
"Don't get carried away. We need to keep our packs free for essential things."
"What could be more essential than Little Women?" Sofia asked with a broad smile.
"Food and water, for one. Unless of course your planning to use the book as a fire starter."
"Over my dead body!" Sofia shouted in mock rage. Then she bent down and pushed through the books once again.
Gordon chuckled and moved towards a still upright shelving unit with a laminated picture of a mortar and pestle taped to the side. The medical section. It occurred to him that it might be an idea to pick up a book on general anatomy, physiology and medicine. He didn't look long before he found a volume filled with illustrations, an all in one reference. He took it to an upended table, straightened it and sat to skim the information with interest. An hour later, he stood, stretched and pushed the book into his pack, making his way back down stairs.
Below, he saw Sofia leaning back against a small hill of novels, reading.
"We need to get moving," he said, looking through a window.
"I was just getting comfortable," she protested. "Say, you ever read Gulliver's Travels?"
"As a matter of fact, I did. My sophomore year in high school. Wasn't much of a reader back then but I did like that one."
"Here," she tossed him the book. "Keep it as long as you like. No due date. No late fees."
Gordon caught the book and opened it. He read a few lines and then pulled his pack around and dropped it inside. Sofia stood then, stretching like a cat, Gordon noted appreciatively. Then he pushed towards the door, stepping over a fallen wood sign that once hung from the rafters above the entrance. Bienvenidos. Welcome. He smiled and walked out into the sun.
Chapter Fifty
A t Setter and Beach, Bennett found a bicycle lying beneath an overpass. It was half buried in rubble fallen from the concrete overhead but had somehow managed to avoid too much damage. Bennett guessed it was the body still sitting on it that had somehow softened the blows.
The destruction from the blast, so evident towards the city center, became less so as he headed south, just as he had hoped it would. Streets were in better condition, Some overpasses still standing, buildings frayed but upright.
The bike was leaning against a freeway pillar at the Beach St. entrance to the 5 in East Los Angeles. The body had blackened, swollen hands still holding the grips. The man was bent over the handlebars, head missing. Bennett supposed it lay beneath the chunk of guardrail next to the front tire but didn't care to check. He pried the hands from the grips and tipped it sideways, allowing the body to tumble off. Picking up the bike, he carried it to a clear section of road and set it down to check it out. Except for a few scratches, it appeared to be in basic working order. Pulling the compass out of his pocket, he duct taped it to the handlebars.
He pulled the California map from his back pocket, unfolded it and compared it with the compass. Smiling to himself, he refolded it, tossing away the other map of Los Angeles. He didn't plan to come back again anytime soon.
Looking down the road, he climbed on the bike and turned the wheels to the south. He passed people walking or riding bicycles of their own, either singly or in groups, some carrying packs, others not. As he rode past them, they stared at him. Peddling away in his dapper black suit, he would have presented a sight even along the Santa Monica boardwalk before the Blow. Now he looked almost surreal flying along the streets at a decent twenty miles an hour, tails flapping behind him. The thick felt fedora he'd chucked hours back. Too hot.
Within a few miles, the frontage road opened into suburban neighborhoods, squarely middle class homes and yards, affordable, pleasant but lacking the three amenities the upper class enjoyed, a hill, a view and water. Unless one counted the eternally flowing carwash spilling down the gutters. Freeway on the right, Bennett followed it at a brisk pace. He wanted to get out of LA as soon as possible, aiming for the place where the 10 intersected with the 5 and continue from there to the border.
He was surprised when an old station wagon passed him, filled with people. Hispanic. A Mariachi piece he didn't recognize was blaring out of the car's open windows, an 8-track maybe, the crowd inside singing loudly along with it. The man driving the car tooted his horn at Bennett, the other men inside leaning out their respective windows and shouting a cheerful hello, waving at him as they sped past.
The driver had a sixteen ounce tall boy in his left hand. Then whooping, several arms appeared out of the windows holding handguns, firing them towards the sky. Bennett stopped the bike to watch as they tore d
own the street and out of sight.
Some clever fellow had figured out how to get a car moving again. Bennett thought about it for a while as he peddled. If they could figure it out, perhaps he could as well. Then laughing as much at the men as at himself, he grimaced and shook his head. Radios he knew, cars not so much.
The bike slid effortlessly forward, changing gears automatically, shocks smoothly absorbing the cracks and bumps Bennett encountered. An expensive bike, he knew, a find for a man wanting to put as many miles behind him as possible. His only complaint, the razor thin seat seemingly designed to cause the rider the maximum possible agony in the shortest distance possible. He felt sure that within a few miles, the narrow blade would neatly slice him in two, leaving behind a severed body to wriggle away it's final moments on the steaming asphalt. He determined to replace the seat as soon as possible.
He flew along the pitched road with hardly a glance to left or right, easily guiding the bike around obstacles with just a gentle lean to the left or right. Hours elapsed before it occurred to him to slow down to find something to eat. A massive outdoor mall on the west side of the freeway tempted him to cross over. Doing so, he was shocked to see how much of the countless stores contents had been spread out into the parking lot and beyond.
Though the blast was responsible for much of the destruction, it was clear that most of this mess was intentionally caused by those thinking themselves the happy beneficiaries of an unexpected windfall. People carried long thin boxes with widescreen TV's away, the perennial looters favorite, others heaps of designer clothes piled over their shoulders or in grocery carts, women with new leather purses in both arms. It looked like an enormous flea market. Free for all.
It appeared every survivor in the area were helping themselves to the best bargains the outlet had offered to date. Hundreds of people were peacefully poking around the remains, picking things up and then dropping them again in favor of something better. Most of what was left were clothes, once brightly colored, now soiled, lying about in greasy heaps the entire two blocks the outdoor mall stretched.
There were dozens of piles of goods behind each of which someone stood or sat to collect money or some other token for their newly acquired booty. Enterprising entrepreneurs who couldn't countenance allowing so much perfectly fine merchandise go to waste without at least making a good faith effort to turn a profit.
Along the perimeter of the parking lot, stands had been set up where people were hawking some of the more expensive goods they had just liberated at hugely discounted prices. Others sold sandwiches and drinks, beer and wine to any who could pay. No ID required. As was to be expected, all the vices were fairly represented, cigarettes, alcohol, marijuana and cocaine commanding top dollar.
The carnival like atmosphere tempted shoppers to drop a few dollars their way and make a day of it. Bennett's stomach growled. He slowed before the food stands, sitting apart from the rest of the crowd to see what was on order. Warm burgers and coke, stolen from the nearby McDonalds and Carl's Jr. restaurants sat in bunches along the several card tables set up with cashiers drawers, lock boxes or simple paper bags to hold the cash. One table had a small sign that announced,
"No credit cards accepted. All sales final!"
The fetid odor assured Bennett that the meat had turned. A disheveled looking woman sitting in a lawn chair behind the card table holding greasy looking burgers stared at Bennett without so much as a hello. He nodded to her and rode on.
On the next block, a huge auto dealership sat looking nearly untouched. Even the dealership's large showroom windows were still intact as were those of the vehicles on the wide lot. Other than a coating of thick dust covering the cars, they appeared as ready now as they must have days before to transport him in luxury anywhere he might choose to go.
Bennett slowed here, turning between two identical Chevrolet's and peddled to a truck sitting with its door ajar. He stopped then and looked down at a man wearing a white shirt and navy colored tie stretched out next to it. A bullet hole in the man's chest indicated that his death had come in a hurry. Perhaps trying to fend off panicky car thieves wanting to get out of LA in style. Next to his body, a clipboard lay and next to that, keys. Bennett leaned the bike against an adjacent truck and picked up the keys. No harm in checking, he thought.
Stepping over the salesman, he slid across the seat and inserted a key into the ignition. He turned it, expecting nothing, nor was he surprised when the engine failed to turn over. Removing the keys, he got back out of the truck and laid them near the man's open hand.
"Here you are buddy," he murmured, "I've changed my mind. Nothing personal, you understand but you really ought to talk with the company about this reliability problem." He climbed back on the bike and rode out of the lot.
His back end ached, the bike seat having claimed new territory between his thighs. He stopped and readjusted the sweat slicked suit pants to a more comfortable position. So far, he had seen no bike shops anywhere. He thought he might have to settle for a towel to wrap around the seat. Then a thought occurred to him and he began to peddle again. He looked to his left and saw a wall running along the frontage road near the freeway. Its face was decorated with a bright assortment of colorful graffiti as far as he could see. On the other side of the wall was a wide storm channel. From it rain was drained from the city. He turned towards it and rode to a spot where a cross street intersected it. Here it was possible to get around the wall to the concrete basin below.
Bennett parked his bike there and looked down into the drain. Not seeing what he was looking for, he rode to the next intersection, and then the one after that. At the third embankment, he saw two single speed bicycles lying on their sides. He pulled his combination pocket knife from his pack and slid down the embankment. A few of the people walking down the road paused to watch.
The bikes were old, one gear touring bikes in poor condition, just as he knew they would be. The preferred mode of transportation of the homeless. It saddened him to think of those who'd once called the drains home. The only home good enough for those without money, he thought.
The bikes were decrepit but the seats on these bikes were always wide and over stuffed. He flipped out the knife and opened the pliers. He settled on the seat with the least wear and a few minutes later had removed it. He climbed back to the street above and replaced the seat on his bike. Then he flung the expensive blade seat over the metal railing into the storm drain below.
Climbing on the bike once more, he peddled up a freeway on ramp, winding this way and that around the cars. Bodies lay strewn in places where people, seeing the blossom growing in the sky behind them, got out of their cars and ran in the opposite direction. He inadvertently rode over a few limbs, putrefaction just beginning its task of reducing them to bony jelly.
Though the road had become a nearly impassible wall in places for vehicular traffic, Bennett had no trouble negotiating it on the bike. In the few hours that had elapsed since he had he found it, he supposed he had put around thirty miles on it. If he could maintain his pace, he figured he could make the hundred and thirty odd miles, give or take, to the border in two, maybe three days.
Ahead of him, Bennett saw a few other cars and trucks pushing their way through the blockages ahead of them. They were carving a passage though the abandoned vehicles before them. Far ahead, a big rig was leading the way, forcing vehicles to either side of the road. Bennett followed in their wake. As he rode, he saw buildings where people had hung signs from balconies and roofs pleading for help.
He stopped once when he witnessed two men on the street below dragging a third out of a liquor store by one heel. The man being dragged screamed loudly, kicking with his other foot but one of his attackers quickly put a stop to his cries with a swift kick to his head. Then they began to rummage through his pockets. The man who kicked the down man looked up then and spotting Bennett staring at them from the freeway, shouted something to the other man. The first man wheeled then and yanking a handgun
out of his pants, took aim and Bennett heard a bullet whiz past him. Immediately he began to peddle as fast as he could, the angry curses of the assailants fading in the distance behind him.
He rode another ten miles or so without incident. Looking for a place where he might find something to eat, he saw a gas station a hundred feet ahead. He slowed his bike and looked for activity. Seeing none, he rode off at the next exit pushing towards the 76 station. There he approached the building cautiously. No one was in sight. He peddled to the front window and saw inside a vending machine standing between the men and women's bathrooms. As had been true the last several miles or so, the windows were intact. Bennett walked around the gas station until he saw a fist sized rock sitting amongst the weeds. Picking it up, he looked around again to make sure no one was about and then hefting it, he walked back to the front.
He thought to call out first, making sure the owner wasn't nearby waiting to empty a 9mm into him. No one answered. Then, standing back, he threw the rock at the window. It shattered and fell in a god awful racket Bennett was sure people with a mile radius would hear and come running. Quickly he stepped over the low wall and seeing a mop propped against the door to the men's bathroom, grabbed it by its end and swung it at the venting machine. Again the glass fell with a deafening noise. Bennett pulled his pack off then, stuffing everything he could inside, Baby Ruth's, Butterfingers and the rest. Then he high tailed it out of the gas station, jumped back on the bike and rode away. No one was around to give chase.
Chapter Fifty One
T he Ridge Valley Mall reared skyward, its central bell tower still standing, looming over the adjacent two story bank that had buckled amid ships and slid headlong into the street. Walking around it, they stood staring at the vast rambling structure, one hundred and sixteen stores enclosed in a cheap tan and blue stucco exterior, singed with black smoke trails and deep cracks running up its sides ground to roof, missing clay tiles on top. The glass panels at the side entrances had all shattered in the concussion sending small squares deep into the mall. How it had managed to remain upright when so many of its sturdier neighbors had fallen was a wonder.