by John Varley
“Excuse me, sir,” Karen called out. “Can we get through to the Valley on that street up there?”
“No, ma’am,” one of them said. “This is a restricted area. I’ll have to ask you to turn around and leave at once.”
“Got it,” Dave said, and put his helmet back on. Karen looked ready to ask another question but he gave her a nudge and started his engine. They headed back down the freeway.
“That’s Lake Hollywood up there,” he explained, when the soldiers were out of sight. “They wouldn’t let me and Addison up there when we went by earlier. I guess they’re protecting the water supply.”
“So where do we go now? Let’s don’t go back where that crazy man was.”
Back on the surface streets, suddenly there was traffic. A fleet of a dozen tanker trucks rumbled by, with soldiers in trucks before, in the middle of, and behind the convoy. All the tankers had been converted to wood burners and belched smoke. The troop carriers were open in back. Each held six soldiers, all with their weapons pointed outward, looking alert and ready for anything. Some of them waved at Dave and whistled at Karen as they went by, but most of them kept their eyes on the buildings, plantings, and hillsides all around them. They had the look of men who had been in combat.
“At least somebody’s delivering water around here,” Dave said after they had all passed by. Karen sighed.
“Okay. Where now?”
“You want to take a look at the I-5?”
“Why not? If we can’t go north on it, I guess that’s the way we’ll go south.”
The circular Capitol Records Building was still standing.
At the corner of Canyon Drive, a big tree had fallen and completely blocked Franklin.
They turned south. They saw a few people looking out windows of undamaged homes. They came out on Van Ness and went south again to Hollywood Boulevard. The next two streets to the east, Taft and Wilton, were both blocked, one by fallen trees and the next by a huge gap in the pavement that had brought down buildings on both sides of the street. But the next street, Gramercy Place, was open. They turned left and into welcome shade. Ahead of them they heard the sound of a very loud motorcycle. Karen looked at Dave, and he motioned with his head that they should turn onto one of the driveways between two buildings.
They faced the street and listened to the incredible racket. It built and built, but when it passed it was nothing like Dave had expected. He just got a quick glimpse, and it was plain that it wasn’t that big a motorcycle. It was more like a mountain bike, and it was being ridden by a short man in a black suit.
He must have seen something from the corner of his eye, because as soon as he was out of sight the sound of his engine died away abruptly to a sputtering series of backfires, then died altogether.
Dave removed his shotgun from its scabbard and jacked a round into the chamber. He saw Karen had her Ithaca in her hands, too.
The man came around the corner, saw them, and stopped. He smiled and put up his hands. He was wearing a clerical collar.
“I’m unarmed, my children.”
Dave cautiously lowered his weapon. It could be a disguise. The man’s hair was long and straight and dark black, streaked with gray, and his face was covered with stubble. His skin was brown and he had a round face and the features of a Hispanic.
“I’m Father Michael,” he said, still not approaching any closer. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in the neighborhood.”
“We’re from west of here,” Karen said.
“How far west?
“Just this side of Beverly Hills,” Dave told him.
“Ah, yes. I’ve been through there. Why are you out and about? It’s dangerous.”
“Well, we didn’t lose too many people. We’re hoping to leave the area entirely. We need to see what we’re up against. What about you?”
“Yes, I can’t argue that leaving this place is a not good idea. As to myself, so far I believe my clerical collar has saved me from any trouble.”
“Can you tell us anything that might be useful to us?” Karen asked. “Anything about conditions to the north? We’re trying to get to Oregon.”
“I admire your ambition. As to useful information…I haven’t been far into the Valley. I’ve been commuting back and forth among the various hospitals that are still operating, from East Los Angeles to your neighborhood, Cedars-Sinai. I just came from Glendale Memorial, on my way to Children’s Hospital by a rather indirect route that will allow me to stop off at a church where I’m needed. I’m afraid I will have to offer last rites again when I get there. I have given last rites so often in the last weeks…”
He looked haunted for a moment, then shook his head violently.
“The I-5 is completely blocked just north of Los Feliz, which I assume is where you were going. A landslide in Griffith Park, about where the pony rides were, has covered it completely. San Fernando Road is open. I have seen many pilgrims headed south, a few to the north.”
“Pilgrims?”
“Did I say pilgrims? I suppose that’s how I’ve been thinking of them. Of course, they are refugees. Most of them are on foot, but from time to time someone goes by in a vehicle they still have the gas to run. But I think most people who had access to gasoline have already left.”
“Do you have any news from San Diego?”
“None at all, I’m afraid. And I wouldn’t rely on it much if I did. I try to report just what I’ve seen with my own eyes. Do you intend to go to I-5?”
“I think so.”
“Then watch out for lions.”
Dave wondered if he had misheard. Then he wondered if the pressure had been too much, if it had driven the priest crazy. Father Michael saw it.
“This is something I’ve seen with my own eyes. One rumor has it that the earthquake opened the cages at the zoo. Another says that a zoo employee, from an impulse of kindness, released all the animals. I have seen a kangaroo, or perhaps it was a wallaby. And three days ago I drove around a corner, and down the street was a lioness tearing at the body of what looked to be a German shepherd.”
He shivered slightly.
“The cat showed no fear, not even the racket of my motorcycle with a broken muffler seemed to faze him. I turned around and hurried away. It’s all the talk of Glendale. I know many people have been hunting for the more dangerous predators. But I suggest you keep your eyes open.”
“We will,” Karen said. She stared at Dave, her eyes wide.
“However, the most fearful predator of all is, of course, mankind. Lions don’t have submachine guns.”
“We’ll keep that in mind, too,” Dave assured him.
“Well, it’s been nice chatting, but I must return to God’s work. Be safe, my children.” He put out his hand, and they both shook it. They started their engines and pulled out onto the street.
There were a lot of trees on many of the streets in this neighborhood, which was known as Little Armenia or Thai Town, and many of those were big old spreading deciduous trees that had fallen. They ended up taking many detours, and at one point, somewhere around Normandie and Sunset, they could look north and see the recently refurbished Griffith Park Observatory perched out at the end of its promontory, three domes set on a low white building. It was still standing, and looked intact.
Sunset was clear, and they were able to head east again through the medical complex of Kaiser, Children’s, and Hollywood Presbyterian Hospitals. There were some LAPD on bikes, taking a lunch break. It looked like canned soft drinks and tacos.
They drove out onto the bridge over the I-5 freeway and looked over the edge. It was as empty as the 101 had been. Just to the north they could see a huge landslide that had shaken down and covered all lanes, as the priest had said.
They backtracked, then turned south on Riverside Drive. Passing under Hyperion Avenue, they entered the freeway and started south. They saw almost no one until they passed underneath the Glendale Freeway, then they began to see travelers here and there. Most of them
were headed south.
Once they had passed over the dry river and the Pasadena Freeway they began to see more people. It never developed into a throng, or even a crowd—there were times when they were all alone—but it felt good to see people again, particularly when none of them seemed threatening.
They entered the East Los Angeles Interchange, the busiest interchange in the world, where four major highways intersected and tangled with each other like a bowl of concrete spaghetti. The I-5, the I-10, the 101, and the 60 entered and exited the area at different points, and the proper route for getting from one to another was not always obvious. It was a place that had defeated millions of people not familiar with the area, and had even confounded Dave a time or two.
At motor-scooter speeds and with no traffic to merge with, it was not a problem. As they passed each of the other highways, keeping to the I-5, they saw more people entering. For the first time they saw a few on scooters, one on a motorcycle, and several official vehicles belching smoke from their jury-rigged wood burners. At one point three LAPD motorcycles screamed by. The officers were riding two to a cycle, something he had never seen. The man or woman in back carried a military rifle in the ready position.
But most of the people were on foot, pushing grocery carts. Some pulled big wood-sided children’s wagons, piled high with the possessions they thought they would need on the trek south.
They went under a dozen overpasses, none of which had fallen down, though some showed large cracks. A lot of overhead freeway signs had fallen, but they had been pushed to the side of the road.
They came to Hollenbeck Park, a long and narrow strip of grass with a lake running down the center, much like Echo Park. It had been turned into a refugee camp. It was a sea of people. There were many real tents, but the predominant color was blue, from the hundreds of plastic tarps that were serving as makeshift shelters.
This was East L.A. and Boyle Heights, the overwhelmingly Hispanic neighborhoods where incomes were low, unemployment was high, and there had historically been a lot of gang activity. In the best of times many of these people lived on the edge, commuting to minimum-wage menial jobs in construction, gardening, and food service.
In their earlier days Dave and Karen had liked to come here. Cesar Chavez Avenue (formerly Brooklyn Avenue) and Whittier Boulevard bustled with small private enterprise, from the taco trucks parked at the curb to the fruit carts with their colorful wares peeled, sliced, and sitting on ice, ready to be bagged with a squeeze of lime and maybe a dash of chili powder, to the tiny storefronts jammed to the ceiling with cheap imported merchandise from China and Southeast Asia. Some of the best Mexican, Guatemalan, and Salvadoran food in the city could be had cheaply in the many tiny restaurants.
There was an orange plastic fence standing between the tent city and the lake itself, going all the way around the lake at a distance of about ten yards. National Guard troops stood guard. Dave realized they were using the lake for drinking water. Across from them, on St. Louis Street, there was a large tank with a wood fire under it and pipes attached to it. That fed into a big aboveground plastic swimming pool. They were boiling the water and letting it cool in the pool. A long line of mostly women were waiting to get plastic milk jugs filled.
On the north side of the park, out on Fourth Street, dozens of blue plastic portable toilets had been lined up. The wind was blowing from that direction and the stench was pretty bad.
“I wonder how often they can empty those things?” Karen asked.
“Not often enough.”
On the southeast side of the park were even more tents and tarps, completely surrounding the lake. At the corner of St. Louis and Fourth were several trucks, one of them another grip truck that had been converted to a hospital, and another that was serving as a soup kitchen. A long line stretched away from that, too. He could see other trucks in the side streets. All of them looked to be wood-powered, with the telltale burner looking like a big water heater. Somewhere, there was a factory turning them out.
“This is terrible,” Karen said. “Understatement of the year.”
“And we thought we had it bad.”
“No, we’ve known for a long time that there were a lot of people worse off than we are. We’ve still got food, and a secure place to go to.” She looked up at Dave. “Are you sure that leaving is a good idea?”
“No, I’m not sure at all. But we still need to do more exploring before we can make an intelligent decision about that.”
“Not we. You. Like I said, we’re going to do what you decide.”
“I wish that made me happier to hear that. I mean—”
“I know what you mean. It’s a lot of pressure, and I’d hate to have it all on me. We should be working as a team, but Dave, I just don’t feel up to that yet.”
“Let me know when you do. It would be welcome.”
“Maybe soon.” She sighed. “Onward.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
They continued on the freeway. There were still people here and there, almost all of them going south. Most of the noise-reduction cinder-block walls had fallen down. For the first time driving down this stretch of road Dave was able to see what was on the other side of them. At first it was houses, then a mix of houses on one side and warehouses on the other. A monster fire had ravaged the warehouse district. After half a mile he realized he was seeing the burned hulks of houses, too.
A pedestrian overpass had fallen and entirely blocked the road. Someone had used wire cutters on the cyclone fence running on each side, and a hacksaw on the metal supports. Dave could see tire tracks where trucks had crossed it. They had to lift their scooters onto the shattered concrete.
Then there was the interchange with the I-710 Long Beach Freeway. From a distance it didn’t seem possible that they might get through. Great sections of the curving overhead ramps were missing. In some places nothing was left standing but the massive concrete supports.
Once again what was left of CalTrans, the highway department, had pushed a path through. It involved taking the ramp for the 710 and then crossing over many lanes of freeway, then onto a street called Triggs and down onto the I-5 again. It was so rough they had to get off and walk the scooters, but in five minutes they went down a bulldozed ramp and onto the freeway again.
They were well into the City of Commerce, in the heart of the industrial zone in southeast Los Angeles.
As its name implied, the City of Commerce existed to provide warehouses and light industry in a neighborhood where they could pay low property taxes. There was a small residential area squeezed between the 5 and the 710, but elsewhere it was deserted after dark except for night watchmen. It was surrounded by little towns like Bell and Bell Gardens, Downey, Vernon, Maywood, and Montebello.
Over the muted noise of their engines Dave thought he heard gunshots. He eased off on the gas, and saw that Karen had already done so. They both braked and stood side by side, turning their heads for the source of the sound.
“Up there a little bit, I think,” Dave said.
“Shouldn’t we turn around?”
“It sounds pretty distant. I think we could venture forward a little bit.”
“If you say so.”
They went another three blocks, not hearing any more gunfire. Then at the fourth street they saw and heard a crowd of people. Off to their right was the big empty parking lot of a Home Depot. The crowd of people was almost directly in front of them. Many of them had the big flat orange carts shoppers used to wheel lumber to the checkout stand. There was an alertness to their posture, and they were all looking away from Dave and Karen toward something the two of them couldn’t see because too many people were in the street, blocking their view. But voices were being raised in that direction.
Some of the shopping carts were stacked with goods, cardboard boxes and big burlap sacks that might hold fifty or a hundred pounds of coffee or rice. Some of the sacks were paper, and imprinted with the Purina checkerboard.
“Are people ea
ting dry dog food now?” Karen wondered.
“Could be. Or maybe they’re just feeding their dogs.”
There was a rattle of automatic weapons fire, and the crowd of people ducked as one. So did Dave and Karen. More shots, single ones this time, and many of the people in front of them turned and began to run. Some of them abandoned their carts, but more pushed or dragged them. The contents of the carts were clearly as important as life itself.
“Let’s get out of here!” Karen shouted.
Dave looked around and saw a warehouse off to their right. It was made of corrugated steel, and its big door was open.
“Over there,” he said. Karen saw the warehouse and took off for it, with Dave following close behind. He glanced to his side as the gunfire quickly turned into a full-fledged firefight. As he watched there was an explosion, then another. He couldn’t tell just what it was, but he thought it might be hand grenades. Was the National Guard down that street, or was it just the legendary heavily armed Los Angeles street gangs?
It didn’t really matter. His last glimpse of the action before the edge of the warehouse cut off his view was of two running men falling down, shot in the back.
When they came to the open warehouse door Karen was going a little too fast. She leaned too far into the turn and the edge of the scooter’s foot platform scraped the ground. Then the scooter was on its side and Karen was sprawled on the concrete. Dave jumped off his scooter and knelt beside her.
“Are you hurt?
“Just a scrape,” she said. “What do they call it? Road rash.”
He helped her up and followed her along the inside wall of the warehouse, behind some crates stacked just inside the door. They turned off their engines and propped their scooters on the kickstands.
“Let me see that,” Dave said, bending toward her leg.
“It’s all right, I tell you. I wonder if we can shut that big door?”
It was a roll-up door, wide and high enough to accommodate two big trucks side by side. And they were in luck, because if it had been electrically operated, there would have been no way to roll it down. But this was an old building, and no one had bothered to upgrade something that had worked well for years. They started toward the manual chain mechanism and were halfway there when they heard running footsteps outside.