Tracy opened her mouth to say something and stopped. I could tell she was going to say something about Eric again, and I could tell that she was still at a loss on what to do about the situation. I knew she was still grieving for him, that her maternal instinct insisted she head to the daycare center and get him, that part of her refused to believe he was dead until she saw him. Her bouncing back had to do with that internal conflict, that rational side that was overriding those instinctive emotions, telling herself that no, Eric was dead now, she couldn't do anything about it and she had to live for Emily.
We ate in silence. Emily and Tracy ate ravenously, and when they were finished Emily asked for some fruit. I gave her a fruit cup and Tracy helped me take the empty dishes to the sink.
"Can I watch a SpongeBob video?" Emily asked.
"Sure," Tracy said.
Once Emily was safely enthralled in the exploits of SpongeBob SquarePants, Tracy and I retreated back to the kitchen. "How bad has it gotten?" Tracy asked me.
I told her. I left out nothing, related everything I saw and heard on the news and from what I saw outside. Tracy listened silently, her features still bearing the incredible strain from this morning. When I was finished she turned away. For a minute I thought she was going to break down again. When she spoke her voice cracked. "How can this happen?"
"I don't know," I said. I felt helpless.
"This is just...so...wrong!" She turned to me and the tears were in her eyes again. "How can...how can everything just spiral out of control so quickly? And then to...to have it affect children! And Eric—"
"I know, honey," I said in my attempt to head her off at the pass of another breakdown. I reached out to touch her and felt stupid doing it.
"I just wish I could go somewhere and cry but I know I can't." Tracy looked at me and I could tell that she'd finally accepted the fact that Eric was really dead. "You know..." She looked away for a moment toward the refrigerator. "...when I first heard the news it felt like being hit with a ton of bricks. I couldn't believe it. I still can't believe it. And...I know I lost my mind for a while there...I didn't...I just let my emotions take over me and—"
"It's okay," I said, still trying to reassure her.
"Let me finish!" She paused, took a peek into the living room to check on Emily, and then continued. "Part of me won't feel...like letting go until I can have Eric back physically. Even if he is dead I need to...take care of him." Her eyes were haunted, begging me to understand her. "Do you understand?"
I nodded, feeling my throat hurt from the pain of our loss. "Yeah, I do."
"But...after seeing all this...I know that isn't going to happen. I've...intellectually accepted the fact that he's dead, that the conditions are not to our best advantage in getting him back to take care of him. And I know that I have to be strong for Emily. She's my only hope now. Do you know what I mean?"
I nodded. "Yeah, honey. I do."
We held each other for a moment, Tracy's face buried against my chest. "I swear if it wasn't for Emily I'd just give up right now."
"There's no need to—" I stopped talking, suddenly attuned to a rustle outside. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Tracy felt me stiffen and we both turned toward the sliding glass door off the living room.
The sounds were distinct. Two audible thumps, as if somebody had climbed over the little fence that bordered our back deck and dropped silently onto it. Two more, then another followed them. There was a voice, inaudible, but clearly coming from the back deck.
From farther away, another sound. Primal. Guttural. "Aaaaaoooowwwww!"
Hearing it sent tingles of fear down my back.
Now footsteps on the deck and hands began to pound on the sliding glass doors.
Three
I pulled the Sig Sauer from the holster and thumbed the safety off. I had the weapon pointed at the sliding glass door, finger on the trigger, when I heard a voice from the back deck. "Anybody in there! Hey! Is there anybody there?"
I froze. Tracy had gone to Emily, scooping her up in her arms. They were already retreating down the staircase to the bedrooms and I positioned myself in the center of the living room, assuming the classic firing stance.
Another voice, female, from outside. "Oh God, they see us!"
That primal voice, from down the hill. "Aaaaughaaaa! Meeeaaannnaaaggghhh!"
A third voice, another female. "Fuck!"
The hands started pounding the sliding glass door harder and the first voice—clearly a man—became more frightened. "If you're in there, please, we're normal, we—"
That broke my paralysis. I was across the room and unlocking the door in a flash. I flung the door open and got a quick look at the man. The first thing I noticed was his eyes, which were wide with fright. He almost jumped back a little at my sudden emergence. The second thing I noticed was he was a good ten years older than me, was Hispanic, about my height, but with the physique of a man who spent a good amount of time at the gym. Behind him were a slim African-American woman dressed in a ratty, dirty business suit, a pudgy Caucasian bearded guy who looked about my age, and a young teenage girl, probably sixteen, sporting bleached blonde hair and stylish, yet dirty punk attire. On first reflection she reminded me of the pop star Pink. All of them looked scared and I knew in that instant that they were normal and were being chased by primitives.
"They're coming up the hill behind us," the Hispanic man said as he shouldered his way past me. The others followed close behind him and I stepped out onto the balcony as another "Aaaarrroooo!" filled the air. Looking back on this event later, I realize that was a stupid thing to do—heading outside while complete strangers entered my house. Primitives could have already been along the side of the house, drawn by the howl from their brethren and they could have waylaid me.
As I stepped up to the edge of the back deck another "Aaarrrrooooo!" rose from the hills and I saw them clearly. There were six primitives and they were trudging up the shrubbery-infested hills toward my house and the neighborhood I lived in. How long they might have been chasing these people I have no idea, but it was obvious that trying to lose them in the San Gabriel hills hadn't deterred them. The primitives were a good fifty yards downhill and rapidly approaching. I didn't hesitate. I simply raised the gun, placed each one in my sights, and took them down one by one.
One shot took a primitive in the shoulder, sending him tumbling down the embankment. Two were taken in the chest, eliminating them from the equation forever. One was a headshot; the other took a bullet in the gut. I shot that last one a second time in the head at thirty yards away, then looked around for the other one, a primitive I'd shot in the arm. I could hear him screaming in pain, mumbling in that gibberish they spoke. "Goddammit," I muttered. I couldn't see the goddamn thing now. Had no idea how far down the hill it had fallen. Worse, I was afraid its yelling would attract others. I was right.
Answering howls of gibberish arose from down the hill in the neighborhoods below us. Some sounded like howls of glee. Yay, food! Others were sounds of annoyance, anger. I stood on the porch, still trying to get a look at the wounded primitive when the Hispanic man poked his head out the door. "You get them?"
"Yeah," I said. "But one of 'em's wounded. If I can just—"
"There's no time for that. Get inside!"
The sounds of the other primitives gathered in intensity. It sounded like a football stadium of them, all spread out in a wide radius, answering the call, which swelled and ebbed toward us. That was enough for me to retreat back into the house.
The sliding glass door was shut behind me and I heard the engaging of the lock. I reached toward the kitchen and extinguished the lights. I turned toward the Hispanic guy. "What's your name?"
"Martin Hernandez," the man said. The black woman was standing beside him, her features alert. The other two huddled near them, seemingly not wanting to stray from their circle of four. "And I think I can speak for the others here by saying we're damn glad to see you."
"David?" Tr
acy's voice, from downstairs. She sounded scared.
"It's okay," I called back down. I faced Martin and I must admit part of me wondered whether I should trust him and the other three. I still held the gun, barrel pointed toward the ceiling, and I had six shots left. The Kimber was now nuzzled in the holster at the small of my back and the Ruger was lying on top of the refrigerator, toward my left. I only had to take three steps to reach it. As far as I could tell, Martin and the other three didn't have weapons.
I met Martin's gaze with grim determination. "Any of you have weapons?"
The black woman looked annoyed by the question. "What the fuck kind of question is that?"
The teenage girl shook her head and the bearded guy, who'd looked relieved to reach not only safety but to find somebody who wasn't a primitive, said, "No, man, we don't have any weapons. Listen, we're cool, man, we're just trying to stay away from—"
Martin overrode him. "We're just trying to get out of the city away from these things." Martin's eyes held mine and I saw a level of determination.
"Get out of the city?"
From downstairs: "David?"
"It's okay," I called out. "Come on up."
And that was how Tracy and I met the group we would leave the Los Angeles basin with.
Four
Martin Hernandez suggested that we all head downstairs and remain quiet. I immediately picked up on his game plan and agreed. I made sure the sliding glass door was locked and that the lights upstairs were off, then I retrieved the Ruger and led the way downstairs. Tracy had turned on the nightlights we kept plugged in the downstairs hallway and bedroom sockets, and now in their glow we hastily introduced each other. Lori West was the thirty-something African-American woman. The pudgy bearded guy was James Goodman, and the girl was Heather Young.
Tracy accepted the foursome without hesitation. I was still wary, but Martin quickly put me at ease. He was direct and to the point. "How many other weapons do you have in the house?"
I told him, leaving out the various butcher knives in the kitchen. He nodded, his eyes wandering around the hallway. "Those things chased us all the way from Altadena Drive. We didn't..." For the first time Martin sounded like he was succumbing to the fatigue of the nearly two-mile escape through suburban Pasadena into the foothills of the San Gabriels.
"Those things are all over the place," Heather said. Her left nostril was pierced and she had multiple piercings in both ears.
"We made good distance in the car I was able to get, but the intersection of Allen and Franklin was completely blocked," Martin said. "Probably from when...whatever happened, happened and turned people into those things down there."
Very faintly we could hear the primitives raise their cry. I heard Emily whimper.
"I killed one of them outside," I said, giving them an abbreviated version of my encounter from this morning. Martin nodded. For the first time I noticed how sweaty and dirty he was. Hell, all of them were. It had been in the upper nineties that day, and running around outside being chased by those things hadn't helped them.
We eventually sat down in the hallway in a rough horseshoe shape, silent, listening for any sounds outside. The plaintive cries of the primitives carried throughout the valley and we listened to them. I felt my skin gooseflesh at their sound. It was hard to tell if others were trudging up the hill toward our house. Part of me was expecting it, and I was tense for the next half hour as we sat in the hallway and listened. I glanced quickly at Tracy and her gaze met mine. A silent understanding passed between us as she held Emily cradled in her lap. If push came to shove, it was the three of us against the four people we'd saved from certain death outside. It was survival instinct—our family against everybody else. On an intellectual level I knew it wouldn't come down to that today. Maybe later, but not now with these four. I had a good feeling about them, and the trauma of what happened was still too fresh in everybody's mind. Right now it was normal humans against the primitives and I think the seven of us understood that.
Still, I was tense as I listened for the telltale signs of footsteps clamoring on our deck, of hands slapping uselessly at the windows or the front door. None of that happened. In time the howling outside ceased. For a while we remained seated on the floor in the hallway. James finally broke the silence. "I think we're okay," he whispered.
We all nodded in agreement. Emily asked, "Mommy, what's happening?" Tracy whispered to Emily, what it was I don't know, and I looked at the other four one at a time.
When my gaze rested on Martin he nodded. "It's going to be dark soon," I said, my voice low. "We should keep the lights off."
"Is anybody hungry?" Tracy asked, ever the consummate hostess even when things were turning to shit.
"Yeah," Heather said. "I am."
"We have food," I said. I stood up slowly, my kneecaps popping. I picked up the Ruger, cradling it in my hands. I'd reholstered the Sig and I wanted to maintain control of my armaments for now. "Come on."
The others followed me slowly upstairs. Because it was still light outside we had good illumination in the upper level even with the drapes closed. I led the way to the kitchen and approached the sliding glass door tentatively. Martin joined me. We stood at the door, listening at first. Our eyes met. "I don't hear anything," I said, my voice low.
He nodded. I took a peek between the curtains, saw a glimpse of my deck and the shrubbery beyond it. Everything looked normal. Likewise, we heard no strange sounds.
Tracy still held Emily in her arms, who was clutching her mother in fear. "Let me check the front of the house," I said, as I moved past them to the entryway.
Once I was assured there were no primitives in the vicinity of the house, we gathered in the kitchen/dining area. Tracy was trying to get Emily to sit down in her booster seat at the table. Emily was having none of it. She clutched Tracy's neck as she sat her down. "Come on honey, it's okay."
Lori knelt beside Emily. "Hey sweetie, it's okay. My name's Lori!"
"Can you say hi to Lori, honey?" Tracy asked Emily as she pried the little girl's fingers from around her neck.
As Lori and Tracy worked at breaking the ice with Emily, I retreated to the main area of the kitchen with Martin, James, and Heather. I opened the refrigerator. "There's leftover hamburger patties and hotdogs from a barbecue we had two days ago," I said, pointing everything out. "Buns and rolls are over there. There's frozen stuff in the freezer, and there's eggs and sausage. Help yourself."
"Thanks," James said. He and Heather dug in. A moment later the microwave was reheating hamburger patties and hotdogs.
I asked Lori if she wanted anything. "Whatever that is you're heating up sounds good to me. I'm starving."
I retrieved bottled water for them and by the time the meat was reheated, the buns and condiments were out. I retrieved some fresh fruit—apples, bananas, and pears—along with fresh lettuce. I retreated back to the table with my family while our four guests prepared their food. I glanced at Tracy, who was sitting next to Emily. Our daughter seemed to have come out of her shell a little. I brushed Emily's hair back from her face. "We're okay, pumpkin. These people are friendly."
Emily nodded, and I think the fact that Tracy and I had let down our guard around these people, that we weren't displaying any overt signs of fear, had a positive effect on her. Lori West's friendly overtures also helped tip the scale.
One by one our guests took their meals to the table. Only James remained standing at the kitchen counter, munching on a hamburger greedily. As they ate, Tracy and I got their story out of them in bits and pieces.
They'd thrown themselves together one person at a time. Martin Hernandez had spent most of the day holed up in the condominium he'd shared with his life partner, who'd left for work at his usual time that morning. Martin was an executive at a financial firm in downtown Los Angeles and had moved to the area from Phoenix, Arizona three years ago after meeting his partner, Jerry Horn, at a conference. "I had a late morning meeting," he said. "I'd just finished m
y morning workout and was brewing coffee when I turned on the news and saw everything go down. I tried calling Jerry on his cell and it rang straight into voice mail. He was probably still on his morning commute and I panicked. I couldn't get through to anybody at his firm, and I spent the next four hours trying to get a hold of him, praying that he was all right and trying to...keep my head down because of what I was hearing going on at my complex." I could only imagine. I wondered if Martin was the only person in his complex who was unaffected. I wondered if his partner, Jerry, had turned even while he was driving himself to work.
Everybody else's story was similar. Lori West was just pulling her car up to the building she worked at—on Lake Avenue in Pasadena—when a naked man ran in front of her. She was so surprised she crashed her vehicle into the car in front of her. "The person in that car seemed to turn in that instant," Lori related. "It was a woman, and she got out of the car and yelled at the naked guy. She...I don't know how to say this, so fuck it...she got down on her hands and knees right there in the street and assumed the position. She was like a bitch in heat and he jumped right on her, somehow tore her skirt off and they started going at it right there."
Lori was able to pull away and drove around the block when a trio of men in torn business suits swarmed around her car. "They were snarling," she said, pausing in her meal to reflect on how her version of hell had gone. "I just reacted instinctively, put my foot on the gas and ran them down!"
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